Girl
by The Troubled Jelly Bean
Summary: Not an ATU fic! I know it's clichéd, but... Hayley gets lost in a strange neighbourhood, stumbles upon an abandoned recording studio and finds four young mop-topped lads locked in the basement - four young mop-topped lads from 1962, that is. Woo-OOO-ooo!
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hey! This is my first ever published fanfic, so pleeeease be kind, and LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! Seriously, that little review button down the bottom of your page? CLICK ON IT. I'd be eternally grateful! :D **

**Enjoy!**

_She raised her hand angrily and slapped him hard across the face. The harsh smack broke the silence like a waiter dropping a stack of plates during the tense climax of an award ceremony, or a young nephew falling off his chair during a reflective pause at a beloved uncle's funeral gathering. The sound echoed in his ears as his pale cheeks blossomed a painful crimson. In a way, he knew this had been coming, that it had been lurking in the murky waters of the Distant Future for at least a few months now. He had just been wishing that the tide would pull it, and all other jettisoned mistakes, far, far away, and push it onto the shore of Someone Else's Problem._

_As she slowly lowered her hand, she noted with pride the colour of his cheeks. They now matched her own, which were flushed with hot rage. She could feel them burning, and wished he was sensitive enough to be aware of her pain. The only solace she took was in the fact that he was feeling his own hurt, and, this time, she had been the one to bring it about._

_Carefully, he turned his head back to look at her through a thin film of pain-induced tears. The scarlet tinge on her delicate face made her eyes look darker than ever before, but otherwise it didn't really do much for her; it made her russet-brown hair look thin and unkempt, her sharp, pointed nose look hooked and bumpy, and her perfect pearly-whites look yellow and uneven. He couldn't remember seeing her so dishevelled or unsightly, yet he also couldn't remember feeling any more affection for any other bird he'd had the pleasure of meeting. _

"_Love, look," he started, reaching out for her forgiveness with both hands. "I-"_

"_Shut it," she interrupted, choking the words out through pursed lips. "There's nothing you can say to me that I'm going to listen to. I'm done here. I'm done with us. We're through, you hear me?"_

_His heart started to accelerate, jumping into the back of his throat and making the words even more difficult to say. "I- I'm- I'm sorry."_

_She laughed scornfully, the false sound grazing her throat harshly on its way out. Her chic black high heels gave her the height she needed to look him straight in the eye, and she was grateful for it. "It's too late, okay? You can be as sorry as you want, but it's not going to change anything. You're still a lying, cheating, man-whore with shit for brains and a face like three-month-old road kill." She glared at him, wincing faintly as her shaped, painted fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. She fought with all her might not to use her fists to break his face. "You're now officially dead to me."_

_He looked down at his polished black leather shoes, with their elegant pointed toe and thin black laces, hastily trying to come up with his next move. Her words created a maelstrom of emotions within him, from heartbreak, to regret, to anger, to amusement and back to heartbreak. She was the only one who could do this to him, like she was the key to his soul, or the crack in his emotional dam, or the bright red plunger for the blockage in his heart. He cringed as he thought of how she would cackle if he told her these sentiments, and buried them deep down. "Look, I promise I'll make it up to you. I really am sorry!" He flung his arms open in frustration. "Jesus, what do I have to do – self-flagellate? Jump off a cliff? Write you an album? Whatever you want me to do, love, I'll do it. Seriously." His soft chestnut eyes gazed endearingly into hers, and he moved to hold her hand. "Just say the word, and I'll kill someone."_

_She flinched away before his warm hand could reach her. "Just stay away from me. Forever." With a sharp intake of breath, she turned and hurriedly strode away from him._

_He waited until the sound of her footsteps had faded. "But I love you," he whispered, letting a tear fall from the corner of his eye. _

_~ Twelve-hundred anguished heartbeats, three-hundred and four sobs, six-hundred and twenty-nine painful gasps and seventy-two swear words later ~_

_She threw her coat onto the back of the chair, not caring when it slid off and fell to the ground. She collapsed onto the bed and allowed her grief to take over. Tortured sobs wracked her curled frame as she reached for her pillow and pulled it up to her tear-streaked face. She screamed into the soft, black fabric, willing it to soak up her pain. Her muffled cries bounced off her large vanity table mirror, and as the stifled shrieks filled the room, she wished there were someone around to wonder what was causing them. _

_Eventually, her throat was sore, and she wearily peeled the pillow away. The only sound in the whole house was the faint echo of her cries, lingering on like a ghost at a crossroads. She rolled onto her back, and stared up at the ceiling. She thought it might soothe her, as it had on numerous other occasions, but it just brought more tears to her eyes. She tried to roll back onto her side, but couldn't find the strength. _

_She continued looking up, her sparkling eyes slowly tracing the amateurish brushstrokes of the fluffy clouds, sparkling stars, radiant suns and spherical moons. Every now and then she would come across something that was definitely out of place but that still fit in perfectly, like the little ink drawing of a cat in one of the far corners. A great number of paint cans had been used that day to create a mural on not just her ceiling. She almost smiled as she remembered how the boys had started to paint each other as the day wore on. But the most special part was the final layer, the finishing touch added after everything else had dried. _

_Flowing on top of the rainbow jumble were several twisting lines of music, the fine black lines curving and swirling above her, and flowing down onto the walls. Every first bar from all the choruses the boys had ever written was up there. If the night was magical enough, she could hear the music emanating from the ceiling and the walls. She remembered back to when there had only been a few musical phrases written above her. Now she was in a cocoon of music, and, usually, she loved every second of it. It was one of the sweetest things they'd done for her. It wasn't a masterpiece, but it was still beautiful. And unique. It was their ultimate autograph._

_As the pain became unbearable, she wrenched her eyes away, and rolled once again so that the only way she could've continued to gaze at the ceiling would've been with the eyes in the back of her head. As she buried her face deeper and deeper into the fabric, she wished she could rely on her other usual comfort. Ever since she had been a little girl, whenever she was bored, lonely or upset, she would drift into the small room where they had kept their little upright piano. She would sit at it for hours, until she felt better, her fingers got too cold or her mother would interrupt her. She couldn't imagine going through any day in her life without the opportunity to pass the lounge-room door, forget whatever had sent her in that direction in the first place, and lose herself in whatever music was close at hand._

_But now he'd gone and ruined that for her as well. It was impossible for her to think of music without thinking of him, let alone play any. So that meant that she would lie here, until the sun sank below the horizon, the last light drained from her room and she could move without risking a glimpse of the ceiling. _

_It wasn't enough for him that she had given up everything to be with him – her wardrobe, her iPod, her bookcase, her old bedroom, and her piano. Not a day went by without her wishing she had at least one of them. Of course, she had also left behind her cat, her friends, her brothers, and her parents, but she didn't miss them as much as her iPod. Sometimes she felt guilty, but she would tell herself that it was perfectly normal. If she dare realise how completely far away she was from her mummy and daddy, she might go so far as to regret the decision she had made all those months ago. _

_As she waited for the sun to torture another part of the world, her mind whirled back to when she had first met him and his friends, and left her time for one thirty-two years before she was even born._


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yes, I own the Beatles. I'm not going to lie. Also, I promise that they'll make an appearance in the next chapter. Which (along with the next seven or so) is already written. REVIEW.**

_~ Six months ago, fifty-three years in the future ~_

"_Is there anybody going to listen to my story, all about the girl who came to stay? She's the kind of girl you want so much it makes you sorry. Still, you don't regret a single daaay. Oh giiiiirl, giiiiiiiirl. . ."_

John Lennon's voice travelled through the thin wires, out the small speakers and into her ears. From there, it echoed around inside her head, and caused her feet to start tapping to the beat. She clutched the cool metal of her iPod tighter as she leant back into the comfy bus seat. The engine hummed beneath her, and the sunlight streamed in through the large windows, warming her. Being half-past eleven on a Thursday morning, the bus was half empty and flying down the deserted road. She sat close to the window, gazing out at the city as they passed through, her overflowing bag resting on the seat next to her.

As the song went on, she began to zone out, letting images of John Lennon and his little-known band flit through her mind. Absent-mindedly, she began coiling the cord to her headphones around in her pale fingers. She could whittle away hours like this, just listening to her favourite bands. They would never get old for her.

The bus wound its way through the leafy London streets without much hassle. On some days, she would have marvelled at the beauty of the timeless city, but today she just let it wash over her. She had other things on her mind, such as the very last paper she had just handed in before graduating. She was now returning home after visiting her professors and signing out for her final semester. She was finished. It was time to actually start her life, for real.

And that was scary.

But for now she was just content to fall asleep with her iPod playing in her ears as the bus rumbled through magical London town. Resting her elbow on the window ledge, her head fell against the palm of her hand, and she settled into a comfortable position. The bus stopped and started, people got on and off, but she was oblivious to it all.

The bus driver was near the end of the route when he began to notice her. Everyone else had alighted along the way, and, from what he could remember, she should have gotten off half an hour or so ago, with everyone else. He decided to continue driving before waking her, and did so in relative silence, so as to not disturb her. The dark shadows beneath her eyes gave him the impression that she needed the rest.

Eventually, he reached the end of the route and pulled over. He killed the engine, opened the short partition and got up out of his seat. Looking around the seats for any rubbish left behind by thoughtless teenagers, he made his way up the aisle. He tutted in disapproval as he caught sight of a crushed soft-drink can under some seats, and sighed as he reached down to grab it. As he felt the familiar twinge of pain in his back, he heard her yawn and start to stir. He hurriedly snatched the can and clambered up the back to where she was sitting.

"Uh, excuse me, miss," he said tentatively. "Miss? Excuse me, but you have to wake up now."

It was obvious she had forgotten where she was. She had a wistful smile on her face as her dreams lingered on, and arched back into the seat like a cat stretching.

The elderly gentleman cautiously extended an arm and tapped her on the shoulder. "Hello? Miss, you can't keep sleeping here." He'd get in a fair amount of trouble if she did.

Reluctantly, she cracked open an eyelid, blinking slowly, and the other closely followed. Her vivid blue eyes quickly took in her surroundings, and all her peaceful daydreams evaporated as the penny dropped.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she gushed, as she sat up and hastily threw the iPod in her bag. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"It's quite alright, miss," the grandfatherly bus driver said with a smile. "No trouble at all. I just hope you know where you are now. Are you familiar with this part of town?"

"Uh. . ." she trailed off, looking out of the windows as she stood up. She felt like a complete idiot for falling asleep so soundly on this kind man's bus, and decided she didn't really need any more embarrassment today. "Of course I am. My mother lives near here." Now she just needed to get off the bus before he could pick up on the fact that she was blatantly lying – her mother didn't even live in this hemisphere, let alone this part of the city.

His eyes lit up with happy relief. "Jolly good. Well, I hope you enjoyed your ride." He stepped aside to let her pass down the aisle. "Have a nice day, miss."

As she was in such as rush, she was almost out the door by the time his words reached her, and so she simply turned around and waved back at him.

Stepping onto the footpath, however, the reality of her situation struck her. She had no idea where she was, and her only help was driving off towards the bus depot. Sighing deeply, she hitched her bag up over one shoulder and started walking down the street.

It was a rather bare neighbourhood, with fewer trees and shrubs than what she was used to. Tall apartment blocks towered above grungy concrete gardens, and the air seemed thick with smog. There were a few people here and there, and she guessed the majority of them were here to meet their dealer for their daily hit. What a wonderful neighbourhood.

She had to admit, though, she found it fascinating. She ambled down street after street, her initial anxiety dissipating as curiosity took its place.

After around an hour and a half of exploring this unknown industrial district, she turned onto one of the prettiest streets she had ever seen. Having seen no greenery for quite a while, the giant, ancient oak trees lining the road seemed even more majestic than normal, and she felt obliged to walk underneath them. All along the street were picturesque cottages, with front gardens brimming with flowers, buzzing with insects and bordered by white picket fences. As she strolled down underneath the towering trees, she couldn't help but feel like she'd travelled back in time, to a simpler, more fairytale-like time.

She stopped abruptly, and burst out laughing at such a ridiculous idea. Imagine travelling back in time – what a joke. She'd leave that to Dr. Who and Hermione Granger. She continued walking, and started to whistle a favourite tune of hers, 'Drive My Car', by the Beatles. For the first time since falling asleep, the day was bright and she was feeling awfully optimistic.

She soon realised that the narrow avenue was curving gently to the left and, after rounding the bend, that it ended in a dead-end. She didn't turn around, though, because what she saw at the end of the road fascinated her beyond explanation.

The entire street had led to a patch of mysterious, overgrown woodland. A pair of large, ornate, wrought iron gates were built into a moss-covered wall surrounding the little forest, and a gravel path, overrun with weeds, weaved its way through the wilderness. A plaque was on the wall, but on arriving in front of the rust-flecked entrance, she saw it was too faded to read. She walked right up to the gates, and peered through the iron bars. Threading an arm through the cool metal, she pressed up against the gate to get a better look of what it led to. Far off in the distance, she thought she could see a small building, but couldn't be certain.

She scrunched up her face in thought as she pondered what she should do next. The sensible thing to do would be to turn around, find a bus stop and get home. That's what her mother would've told her to do.

Screw that. Her mother was back home in Australia, and she was here, in London, on an Oxford scholarship. She could do anything. Today was a good day, anyway. She should make the most of it.

And so she gripped the gate firmly, and pulled herself up. Casting a cautious glance behind her, she threw her bag over the other side, and began to climb. It didn't take very long, but to her it felt like hours, and her heart thudded loudly all the way.

Dropping down onto the gravel path, she picked up her bag, and slung it back over her shoulder. The woodland was much more menacing from this side, and she stuck to the middle of the pathway, as far away from the vegetation as possible. There were no animal noises that she could hear, just the haunting sound of the wind blowing through the dry leaves of the neglected trees.

She followed the gravel further into the dark wood, and started to whistle again, picking up where she had left off, in an attempt to ward off her fears. After twenty minutes or so, she stumbled across the building she had seen before from the street. It was three storeys high, with ivy threading itself all through the aged brickwork, and all the windows boarded up. She walked up the front alcove, and knocked on the distinguished-looking front door.

The place felt so alive, she almost expected to hear someone call out in response, but heard only the knock echo throughout the little building. Her curiosity beating down her fear, she slowly tried the handle, and was taken aback when it obeyed her without complaint. Gulping down her hesitations, she pushed the door open and looked in.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: REVIEW.**

It was obvious what the place was once she saw its innards. It was a recording studio, with autographed photographs of musicians decorating the peeling red walls, guitar cases and headphones lying forgotten on the dusty floor, and a red 'Studio In Use' light on the wall opposite her.

Her interest piqued, she stepped inside. The atmosphere was incredible – it was buzzing with music, activity and life, and she could almost hear the voices of artists long dead, forgotten, or both. She began to explore the dilapidated studio, reverently stepping over corroded cymbals and moth-eaten manuscript.

She moved around the ground floor, from room to room, in awe, until she found a little upright piano in one of the rehearsal rooms, much like her one at home, in Sydney. Aside from that, there was nothing particularly special about the room, so she didn't waste much time in sitting down at the antique keyboard and lovingly resting her fingers on the keys, just light enough to not make a sound. After getting the feel of the wizened ivory notes, she began to play.

At first she played tentatively, sticking to scales and simple melodies she used to play with her brothers, but, after a time, she started to play more advanced pieces. Her hands flew across the keys, and she started to hum along, tapping her foot to the beat. A fast ragtime piece soon evolved into technically-superior Bach, and from there it morphed into 'Eleanor Rigby', yet another Beatles piece. God, she loved them.

She started to sing the lyrics, her sweet voice feeling at home in the musical mausoleum. She got more and more involved in the piece, and started to pretend there was a crowd in the room with her. She looked around the room, and started imitating the self-obsessed musicians she always saw on television, pulling faces and sucking up to her imaginary audience. She cast her eyes to the far wall as she reached the final chorus, and immediately froze in horror.

The words 'HAYLEY, COME TO THE BASEMENT – WE NEED YOU' were written in red across the majority of the wall. She couldn't believe she hadn't seen them before, but it was preposterous to think that they had suddenly appeared while she'd been there.

Her pale skin was as white as a sheet, and beads of perspiration had appeared on the nape of her neck. She waited for the adrenaline to ebb before doing anything, and sat perfectly still at the resonating instrument. Eventually, she decided to see what was lurking in the basement. Usually, she hated horror movies with stupid, gullible heroines, but now she felt she understood things from their point of view. How do you ever get to be a hero if you never venture into a darkened basement?

She took a few steps over to where she had dumped her bag, and rifled through it for her pocket-sized torch and her mobile, just in case. She went into the corridor, and looked for a staircase down to the lower level. For a few minutes, she thought there may not even be a basement, but, needless to say, she found a narrow set of grungy concrete steps leading down to a thick wooden door.

She nervously made her way down them, the rubber soles of her black Converse gripping onto each step, and walked up to the door. She hoped it wasn't as obliging as the front-door, but, sure enough, it was. She opened it inch by inch, and shone her torch inside.

She was surprised – it was merely another corridor, which seemed to go on for at least twenty metres or so. It was pitch-black, and she couldn't find a light switch anywhere, so she had only the thin beam of light from her torch by which to navigate. The corridor was rather bland, with cream walls and a low ceiling, but as her apprehension reared its head, it seemed to have so much more personality. It was threatening, mocking her, and housing several monsters which poised in the shadows, ready to strike.

At the end of the corridor was another door, similar to the one she had just passed through. She arrived at it and held her breath, slowly reaching for the doorknob, but then something made her hesitate.

She could hear something on the other side of the door. It sounded like voices, but she couldn't be sure. As she continued to listen, it sounded more and more like male voices bickering about something. She wasn't sure she should go in if they were arguing, but then she heard someone call out for help. The plea sounded desperate, and it was accompanied by a banging on the wall.

Drawing up all her remaining courage, she tried to pull the door open quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. It wasn't as cooperative as the previous two doors, and she had to use all her weight to pull it open.

Flashing her light inside, she saw what must have once been a high-tech recording booth, but now was caked in dust and rendered obsolete. She stepped into the room, and realised it had gone eerily silent all of a sudden.

She cast her torchlight around the room, searching for the owners of the voices she heard just moments before. Suddenly, the beam revealed a handsome young man standing next to her. She jumped back as he scrunched up his eyes in reaction to the sudden light.

"Argh, that smarts, that does," he groaned, rubbing his eyes with his hands.

Keeping an eye on him, she continued to search the rest of the room. She found three more young men, who all reacted in a similar way. Puzzled beyond means, she wondered how they had ended up down there.

"What are you doing down here?" she asked, her eyes flitting from face to face.

"Brian sent us down here," one of them said. "We had to warm-up."

"It's a very serious business, love," another interjected. "If we're not warming-up, we're cooling down, and it plays havoc with a guitar's tuning."

"And the drum skins," a third added.

Against her will, her lips curled up in a small smile, but it wasn't like they could see in this light.

"That's all you do? Warm-up and cool down? Why bother coming to a recording studio for that?" She knew they should probably get out of the building and into fresh air, but she couldn't help being a social little thing.

"Great acoustic," the final one answered. "Can we go now?"

"No, you may not," she declared forcefully, spinning around and striding out the door back into the corridor. She walked back to the steps, and climbed them with a spring in her step, glad she had conquered her fears. Imagined monsters were worse than real ones, in her opinion – you can't fight them as easily.

She collected her bag from the room with the piano, and headed towards the front entrance. She had seen enough to satisfy her curiosity, and wanted to get home before dark.

She was about to step outside when she heard the four young men call out after her.

"Oi!"

She turned to face them, and nearly fainted. They were the spitting image of the Beatles. There was John Lennon, with his witty eyes and cheeky grin, Ringo Starr, with his boy-next-door looks and happy laugh, Paul McCartney with his charming smile and pretty face, and George Harrison, with his shy demeanour and inner quirkiness.

"God, are you like Fabba, or something? You could pull it off, believe me," she said, trying to not gawp at them.

"Huh?" the Ringo lookalike said. "Look, we just wanna-"

"Where are we?" the one who looked like Paul asked, anxiety apparent in his warm brown eyes.

Looking at them closely, she realised all of them were anxious. "What do you mean? How can you not know where you are?"

John's spitting image stepped towards her. "We just don't. Maybe it was drugs, maybe some crazy fan, I dunno. Why, love – can't you tell us?"

"Uh-," she blushed. Damn coincidences. "Of course I can. Milky Way. Earth. Northern Hemisphere. Stop me when it starts to ring a bell."

The George impersonator stepped towards her as well. "Ding dong. Now can you tell us how to get to the Royale? Please?"

She racked her brains trying to think of what he was referring to. "The Royale Hotel?"

"Yeah, heard of it?" Ringo's carbon copy asked.

"It's only the most prominent hotel in London," the one who appeared to be Paul cut in. "Don't feel bad if you can't tell us how to get to it."

Annoyance flared through her like someone flicking on a light. "Fine, suit yourselves. Have fun staying at a shopping mall." Of course she knew what the Royale had been.

All four looked at her in confusion, and John's doppelganger pointed a finger at her threateningly. "Explain."

"Well," she began. "Thirty years ago, the hotel was demolished and a car park was built on the site. It was then demolished in turn, and a mall was built. Consumerism knows no bounds."

The four were silent for a while, before George's lookalike muttered, "Damn. I left me favourite tie there."

"Where are we gonna stay?" The drummer looked to John, then to Paul. "We have to stay somewhere."

The confused girl recognised their accent. "You from Liverpool? So were the Beatles – but I'm sure you know that."

George looked at her weirdly. "We are the Beatles."

"Yeah," John added, sliding his hands into his pockets. "So of course we know we're from Liverpool."

She was about to say something in reply, but her phone rang. Spinning around to face the open door, she slid it out of the shallow pocket of her bright-blue skinny jeans, flipped it open and held it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Miss Hayley Evans? I am calling on behalf of your local service provider-"

She snapped the phone shut in disgust and placed it back in her pocket. "Damn telemarketers. No sense of timing."

She turned back around to continue talking to the four boys, and was taken aback by their expressions. They appeared to be bewildered, and she couldn't think why.

"Wha' was that?" Paul asked, pointing to her pocket.

She looked at him with eyebrows raised. "My phone, numbskull. What else would it be?"

"That was a phone?" Ringo asked, disbelief etched across his face. "Don't be ridiculous!"

John stepped towards her slowly until he was merely a foot or so away, and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Love, I'm going to ask you something now, and you have to be one hundred percent honest with me. Alright?" She nodded. "What's the date?"

She suddenly doubted her original presumption that they were Beatles impersonators – they were so perfect. But they couldn't be the actual Beatles, as that was nigh on impossible. All logic was against it. It was not a viable explanation for their uncanny resemblance. There had to be a rational reason for it.

Yet as she looked into John's eyes, she was willing to believe anything.

"Love?"

"John, don't be ridiculous." Paul scolded.

"Yeah, John. It's the first of August, nineteen-sixty-two. What are you trying to get at?" George asked curiously, stepping up behind John's shoulder.

She had a sunken feeling that things were about to get really, really complicated.

"Is that what you think the date is?"

"Uh, yeah," said Paul, Ringo and George simultaneously, as John continued to hold her shoulders and stare at her.

"How about we make a deal – I'll tell you if you're right or not, if you get Mr. Creepy out of my face."

George leant forwards and pulled John off her.

"Now, tell us," said Paul.

"Argh, this is a waste of time," Ringo interrupted. "We should be finding a way back home, not asking a random bird for the date."

"Shut it, Ringo!" John suddenly said, rather harshly. "I have a hunch that getting home is going to be more difficult than what you think, so let's just listen to what the bird has to say."

Highly confused by their exchange, she said, "You have the date right."

Sighing in relief, John turned back to Ringo. "Okay, so you were right. Let's go."

They all cast their final glances around the recording studio, and started heading out the door.

She was left on her own, and stood in shellshock for a few moments before chasing after them.

"Wait! Wait up!"

She slammed the door behind her in haste, and sprinted down the gravel path. As she weaved around corners and dodged overgrown scrubs, she chided herself for taking so long mucking around at the old piano – though it was mid-afternoon, being the Northern Hemisphere, the Sun was already making its way gradually towards the horizon.

She soon caught up to them, and they turned around with smiles.

"What, missing us already?" John teased, crossing his arms.

"No, I just needed to tell you something."

"What?" Paul asked, his black jacket flapping in the breeze.

"It's about the date."

"Yeah?" George asked, resting his hands on his hips and he contemplated the pretty girl in front of them. "First of August, nineteen-sixty-two, right?"

"Well, it's half right."

"What do you mean?" Ringo asked.

"Well, today is definitely the first of August."

"And?" John enquired.

"Well, I guess you could say it's nineteen-sixty-two . . . just . . . add . . . fifty years . . . or so. . ."


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: I know things may've been a tad slow up till now, but now that she's actually MET them, things should go much faster. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, favourited, and whatnot; YOU'RE ALL AWESOME PEOPLE. Special thanks to Betty Flamingo, for mentioning this in her most recent chapter of 'Good Day Sunshine'. Finally, REVIEW.**

They looked at her blankly, and Paul started laughing.

"Nice one, love. Almost had us there."

The others turned to look at him.

"It makes sense, Paul," George whispered. "Think about it."

"Yeah, everything looks all different – the studio was all old, the path is overgrown, and Brian is nowhere to be seen!" Ringo added. "We must be-"

"Impossible," Paul said stubbornly. "We can't be."

"Then how did we get here, genius?" John drawled, smacking his friend over the back of the head. "You have to admit, we're not where we were when the lights went out."

Their young female companion looked at them curiously. "What happened? It might explain how you got here. You didn't happen to walk into a blue police box now, did you? Or find a time-turner?"

"What?" Paul asked, eyebrows raised. He looked around at his friends. "Boys, she's a nutter."

"Like you can talk, Paulie," John jibed, eyes twinkling with intelligent humour.

"Pot calling the kettle black, Lennon. I'm just saying."

"Lads, she asked us a question," George reminded them quietly. "What did actually happen? All I remember is coming back from the bathroom, seeing you three re-enacting the bloomin' French Revolution, everything going pitch black, then . . . then . . ." He looked at their new friend. "Then . . ."

She sighed. She reminded herself that they had more important things on their mind than regular formalities. "Hayley. My name is Hayley."

His smile was both grateful and apologetic. "Then Hayley opening the door, and freeing us. What about you guys?"

John, Paul and Ringo cast each other slightly nervous looks. George rolled his eyes. He knew they'd done something.

"We didn't do it on purpose, see," Ringo said quickly, restlessly twisting around one of the rings on his finger. "It was an accident!"

Paul immediately clamped a hand over his mouth. "What my little friend here meant was that we have absolutely no idea of what could've happened."

John continued the chain by flinging a hand over Paul's mouth. He then said, in a false upper-class British accent, "And what my intellectually-impaired friend here meant was that you, madam, are rather dishy, and we would like to start things over in a much more civilised manner – particularly if that's what it takes to get in your pants." He winked at her cheekily.

"Oi!" George warned, walking up to the entwined three, and slapping his own hand across John's mouth. "Don't scare her off – she seems rather nice, you twat."

Hayley looked at them; Ringo silenced by Paul, Paul silenced by John, and finally, John silenced by George. She started to chuckle under her breath. One of the reasons she loved them was that they had a sense of humour. And she had to admit, with them here, the eerie forest seemed much less intimidating.

After standing still helplessly for a few moments, unsure of what to do, Ringo reached across and pressed his hand over George's mouth. And the look of surprise on the guitarist's face was what made her finally collapse in a fit of hysterical laughter.

Her exuberant guffaws were too much for her body to maintain standing straight, and she bent over her knees, hugging her sides. She couldn't help it – God, they were funny. Her bag slid off her shoulder and hit the ground, its contents exploding out. This only made her laugh harder, and as she attempted to collect everything, her consistent failure was like a silly, silly fuel to a hilarious flame. Her phone slipped out of her hand, and she started to laugh so hard she fell to her knees. Her eyes watered, and tears ran down her cheeks. She looked up at them with her glittering eyes, and seeing their hands slowly slip off each other's faces was the final straw. She collapsed completely onto the ground, rolling around on her back, as the situation fully hit her. Either this was the greatest day of her life, and she was actually meeting the Beatles, or she was lying broken and bloody on a road somewhere after a nasty encounter with a bus.

She found this utterly hilarious, and continued to laugh, lying on the gravel.

The four boys looked at each other with mischief lighting up their eyes. John, closely followed by the others, started tip-toeing towards her, exaggerating each fairy-like step by hoisting up their knees as far as possible and holding their hands delicately up near their chests. As the girl rolled on the gravel with her eyes scrunched up in laughter, they surrounded her, and Paul held up three fingers.

Then two.

Then one.

Her laughter was just dying down as the tickling commenced. Her peals of laughter started up once again, and she writhed around, trying to escape. Finding herself encircled by the mop-headed demons, she tried to sit up.

"Okay, okay! That's . . . that's enough!" She wiped the tears off her face using Paul's thin black tie, which just happened to be flapping around in her face. He was about to object, but soon thought better of it. John had done worse.

The four Beatles stood and looked down at her. They had been so preoccupied with their predicament, they hadn't really looked at her.

Hayley had very pale skin, a result of living in England, being a dedicated student, and being semi-nocturnal, and though bordering on being pallid and unhealthy-looking, it seemed a good companion for her bright blue eyes, ruby-red lips and delicate, feminine nose. Her eyebrows curved elegantly over her eyes, though usually they were contorted into some weird expression or another, as she seemed to use them just as much as her vocabulary when communicating with others; whether it be a person, her reflection or a frozen computer. Her wavy russet-brown hair had started to fall out of its loose ponytail, and was falling down her back and over her face. Her fringe had been mussed up during her fit of laughter, and instead of lying dead straight down to the tops of her eyes, was splayed up at all odd angles. As she grinned up at them, they noticed her brilliant smile, matching the gleam of the three earrings she had in each ear; two in the flesh of each lobe, and one up the top of each ear.

Their eyes then travelled further down her frame. Underneath a thin, white, cotton t-shirt with "First Rule of Musicology: B# = C" printed on it, her electric-blue skinny jeans hugged her legs tightly, and all four boys approved highly of the effect, noting the black Converse on her feet. Some fashions never die.

She sighed contentedly, and ran a hand through her hair. Her nails were painted bright pink, and she wore a pretty mood ring on the ring finger of her right hand, and a thin, golden watch on her left. The slender, black hands were pointing to half-past three.

"It's rude to stare, you know." She stood up suddenly, making them scatter like wide-eyed pigeons. She started to grab her things from where they'd fallen, hunting through the weeds at the side of the path for her map of London. After three years, she still managed to get lost, and so her old room-mate had bought it for her one Christmas. Cheap ass.

"I guess they don't make birds like they used to," John said, trying to ignore any admiration he might have felt. The others soon followed suit, and acted as though they hadn't openly gawked at her.

"Seriously, Ringo. What did you do?" George asked, forcing his eyes to stay on the other Beatle, and not allow them to drift over to the brunette foraging further along the path.

The drummer's gaze flickered over to John and Paul, who then looked to each other. A silent conversation quickly taking place, they turned back to Ringo and nodded.

"Well, we were in that room an awful long time, as you know," Ringo explained. George nodded slowly. "So we got bored. We started playing around with that fancy new mixing-desk stuff – all those buttons, you see – and then . . . I may have . . . spilt some coffee on it." He looked down at the ground and shoved his hands roughly into his pockets. Hayley looked up, and felt a stab of pity for him. He looked like a young schoolboy getting in trouble with his favourite teacher. She just wanted to run over and engulf him in a big bear hug, but thought they might think it a tad weird. Or creepy. Or both.

"Spilt? More like poured, ya big buffoon!" said John. "I mean, Jesus, any more and you'd've needed a bucket."

Paul sniggered briefly. "Or a wheelbarrow."

Ringo sighed, and looked up at George. "Anyway, sparks started flying up at us, and it made this weird sound, like, and then it just kinda . . . fizzled out."

"He broke it!" Paul cut in. "He, Ringo Starr, the famous drummer of the legendary, and quite fantastic, Beatles, had just single-handedly wrecked the most advanced, fancy-pants piece of recording technology in the country!" He glared at the embarrassed boy, and scowled in disapproval.

"And so-" Ringo started to say.

"Off with his head!" John cried, starting to strangle him. "Off! Off it goes!"

George started to chuckle, and Paul cracked a smile. Ringo pretended to thrash about, gurgling out in protest, and going limp. Once John was satisfied he'd suffered enough, he crowed in victory, and thrust his hands in the air. "Le guillotine conquers yet another villain!"

Hayley found her dog-eared map, and walked back over to them. She was extremely puzzled. "I don't mean to sound awfully sceptical or anything, but how did spilling coffee in a recording booth lead to all four of you travelling in time? And why were you even drinking coffee in the first place? I thought you Brits preferred tea." She picked up her bag, and waited for an answer.

"Well, I got a taste for coffee when we went to Hamburg. Such a buzz!" Ringo shook his head in disbelief. "Couldn't get through a day without it, me."

"Weren't the only thing he got a taste for over there," John said slyly, touching his fingertips to his thumb, bringing it to his mouth, moving it backwards and forwards and poking his tongue into his cheek.

"Hey!" George said, hitting him. "What did I say before? Be a good boy!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And the time travel bit?"

It was Paul this time who answered her question. "Well, John was the executioner, and Ringo was the criminal, so I had to be the lawyer."

She raised an eyebrow. "They had lawyers during the French Revolution? Bet they were the first to go."

He smiled at her, and continued. "Well, me uncle's a lawyer, so I know some stuff, and I managed to get a rather good deal for poor old Ringo here."

"His dazzling good looks and incredible charm also helped," John added.

"He had one chance – to try to fix it."

George was one step ahead. "And that was where things went wrong?"

The other three didn't need to say anything, just looked at him.

"I found a panel underneath the desk, and cracked it open," Ringo explained. "And then I-"

"Stuck me hand in and pulled wires at random?" Paul suggested, the corners of his lips tugging up slightly as he crossed his arms.

Ringo sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. "Well, I'm not an electrician, am I?"

"Which is why you had to get the chop!"

"Oh, give it a rest, John."

Paul finished the story succinctly. "And so he failed dismally, was put to death, and George walked in, the thing started humming, and the lights went out."

"Bada bing, bada boom – time travel," John marvelled, looking up at the burnt-orange sky. "We were in that room for hours, you know, before you arrived."

"Yeah," George muttered bashfully, feeling guilty for not showing any gratitude any earlier. "Thanks for that."

Ringo and Paul nodded in agreement. "Thanks, love."

She just shrugged, and hitched her up her bag. There's only one thing you can say when the Beatles thank you for setting them free from a room in which they time-travelled. Of course, she didn't know what it was, so she improvised.

"Don't thank me just yet – maybe I'll kill you and use your skin to make upholstery."

For a second, there was a look of panic in their eyes, but they soon realised she was kidding.

"Hey, Paul?" Ringo asked. "You said you heard a humming from the machine-thing, right?"

"Yeah," he replied slowly. "Why?"

"Well, it's just that I didn't hear anything," Ringo said in confusion.

"Don't worry, you're a drummer – your ears aren't a hundred percent, poor chap."

"Hey!" Ringo cried in mock insult. "I have very good ears, I'll have you know!"

"Well, they're much more normal than your nose, if that's what you mean," George taunted, a wide grin splashed across his face.

Hayley's heart swelled as she looked on at their brotherly exchange. In only four years, they would be starting to grow apart, and in eight they would decide their differences too great to continue working together, and go their separate ways. But for now, they needed, and loved, each other. It was one of the sweetest things she'd ever seen. She began to imagine shrinking them and taking them home as pets, when she realised they hadn't thought of something.

"What are you boys going to do now?"

"Huh?"

All four looked up from their weird embrace; after the insult, Ringo had grasped George in a headlock, Paul had grasped his arms tightly behind his back, and John had started to tug on his hair. "Bad boy, bad boy!" John laughingly chided, pulling the poor guitarist's head from side to side. He let go, and looked up at their new acquaintance.

"That's a fair question, oh fair maiden. What d'ya wanna do, lads?"

Paul thought for a moment, chewing his lip. "Explore. Just for a bit."

"Sleep. I'm knackered," Ringo said, yawning on cue.

"Get something to eat," George said, rubbing his stomach. "We haven't eaten since breakfast."

Hayley shuffled from foot to foot anxiously. She knew how this would go – she'd dreamt of it enough times. Either they'd decide to go back to 1962, or they'd decide they needed someone to show them around the city. And she really was in a rush to get home. She had to get ready for graduation, no matter how many Beatles she came across.

John turned to her with a smile, the shadows from the swaying braches dancing across his handsome face. "I do believe we need a guide, ma'am, if you'd be so kind." The others turned their gaze on her, waiting to see her reaction to his request.

"Took your time 'bout it, didn't you?" She cried, exhaling deeply in relief, glad that they weren't just going to walk out of her life. "Well, let's get going, then."

Without waiting for their consent, she started marching along the path briskly. After a few steps, she heard the coarse sound of their feet on the gravel, and felt a warm feeling ooze through her as she realised that they were following her. They actually needed her.

And she absolutely, definitely, certainly, one-hundred-percent, mustn't abuse her new power over them.

She grinned maniacally, not letting any ounce of self-control filter its absolute craziness. It wasn't like they could see it, anyway.

After a few minutes of relatively uneventful silence, they reached the gates.

"How did you get in here?" John asked, walking up to the rust-flecked metal bars and scratching at them with a fingernail.

"Tunnelled," she said simply, stepping onto the bottom horizontal bar of the gate and pulling herself up. Again, she tossed her bag onto the other side, wincing slightly as she heard her headphones hit the pavement. Climbing to the top, she swung one leg over, and paused, looking down at them. Maybe they didn't get her sense of humour.

"I'm in rather a rush, see, and hunting around for the hole, cleverly concealed as it is, isn't half as time-wise as just climbing the bleedin' thing."

All of them, except stony-faced John, had a blend of admiration and surprise mottling their young, attractive features. It was obvious they didn't think her capable of climbing fences, as her healthy curves didn't exactly scream athlete.

She sighed exasperatedly, and dropped down onto the other side. She picked up her belongings, and waited for them to join her. As she stood there, she looked around the street once more, admiring the picturesque beauty of each blossom in the gardens of the quaint cottages. It was no surprise something like time travel had occurred here – the street radiated magic.

She heard four heavy thuds behind her, and whirled around. A grin spreading across her pretty face, she spread her arms wide apart, and said with a laugh, "Beatles, I bring you . . . the future!"


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Alas! Another chapter! What were the chances? Thanks to 555LordBacon666, HorrorFan13, the awesome Autumn-Wan Kenobi, as well as the always marvellous Betty Flamingo for your wonderful reviews and praise! This chapter was about two-thousand words longer, but I decided the turn them into a nice little chapter for next time. I HAD LOADS OF FUN WRITING THIS ONE. :D Hopefully it should show. I hope you enjoy!**

The sun had started to dip below the horizon by the time the four Beatles and their female companion turned onto Garial Lane. The narrow street was lined with parked cars, and the houses hummed with life as their owners settled down for the evening. There were a scattering of wind-swept street trees, and graffiti was scrawled across most front fences, the metallic scribbles beginning to blend into the fading wood and bricks. Halfway along the street, there was a two-level apartment block, and it was this modest, minimalist building which happened to be their destination.

Ringo yawned, even more tired after their little adventure around town. His exhaustion was starting to affect the rest of the group, and they had quickly decided to bunker down for the night. Hayley had happily volunteered her apartment as their temporary accommodation, and couldn't believe how her day was ending. This morning, the most eventful thing she'd been looking forward to was signing out of Oxford, and now after a slight misadventure on the bus home, she had the Beatles sleeping over. Best. Day. Ever.

The merry group chatted and laughed as they walked along, the boys' stomachs full of food. She couldn't believe they had eaten so much. She'd taken them to one of her favourite places – a pizzeria near Hyde Park. They'd eaten almost two pizzas each, and still had room for salad, garlic bread, some pasta, and gelato. Of course, she'd had to pay for it all, but it was worth it, to see them all looking adorable with chocolate dried on the corners of their wide smiles, and watch them fail miserably at eating spaghetti.

Once the five of them had been cramped around a table, they had gotten on remarkably well. The four musicians seemed to be part of the brilliant minority of her acquaintances who appreciated her humour – heck, they shared her sense of humour. She smiled quietly so herself, as she remembered a period in her adolescence when she had felt so disconnected from everyone around her, she thought she had been born in the wrong era. Forging such a strong, immediate bond with these four Liverpudlian lads from the sixties brought the thought to her mind once more.

With Hayley at the front of their merry party, they reached the small apartment building, and she eased open the shrill, short metal front gate, beckoning the four boys through. Cautiously, they approached the front door, a thick wooden monstrosity with bubbled-glass panelling, and peered through.

"Why does it feel like we're breaking in?" John asked, running the tips of his fingers along the bumps in the glass. Hayley rolled her eyes. All evening, the four of them had pestered her with question after question after question, but John had definitely been the most inquisitive. Or at least, the one who asked the most ridiculous questions. It had been quite a challenge for her to hide the fact that the young men weren't from this era. She'd attempted to impress upon them the importance of feigning nonchalance when seeing all these new technologies and ways of life, but they still would let their curiosity dictate their actions; staring at something, poking something, asking her about something.

"Because you don't belong here?" she suggested, rifling through her bag for the key.

"Probably." He stood back from the door. "George, Paul – you didn't happen to bring your guitars, did you?"

The boys rolled their eyes as Hayley used her shoulder to shove the door open.

"Of course. I've been keeping mine concealed about me person all evening." Paul said sardonically, gesturing vaguely to his jacket. George just smirked and looked up at the night sky.

"I have one you can borrow, if you want." Hayley offered, and the three guitarists looked at her in surprise.

She stepped into the small foyer, and walked up to the four letterboxes on the far wall. Checking her mail, she slid the letters into her bag, and turned back to the boys. "Alright, listen up. There are four families who live here – on the ground floor, there's the Jameson's-" she pointed to a door on the left, "-and the Chan's-" she gestured to the right, "-and then there's old Mrs. Dubose and me on the top floor." She indicated to a staircase next to the front entrance. "Rule number one; never feed Mrs. Jameson garlic – she's allergic."

They looked at her patiently, Ringo loosening his tie.

"Also, don't bother any of them. I'm probably not allowed to have five people in a two-person apartment anyway, but seeing as how I'm leaving on Monday, I'm going to ignore it just this once, and stick it to the man."

John skipped to the staircase, and leapt up two steps. "Where's ye bedroom, woman?"

She rolled her eyes, and continued. "If any of them find out that you're here, you're screwed, so just . . . don't leave my apartment."

"What if it's on fire?" Paul asked, taking off his jacket now that they were indoors, and flinging it over his shoulder.

"If my apartment's on fire, it was probably your fault in the first place, so you can chain yourself to the kitchen sink and reap your rewards." She started over to where John was, on the stairs. "Ask me before doing anything, except . . . you know, the basics."

Ringo mock-saluted, and George nodded exaggeratedly. John, feigning ignorance, asked, "What would that be, miss? Climbing into your bed during the night?"

She quickly ran up the two steps to where he was standing, and punched him hard in the arm. "I know you're not dumb, Lennon. I'm tired, I'm stressed, I'm about to move continents, and I'm highly overwhelmed at the moment. Don't test my patience." He looked at her with wide eyes, surprised at her outburst. The others looked at her in a similar way, confused at her sudden mood swing.

She immediately felt guilty. She just hadn't wanted the Beatles, the four men she had idolised her entire life, to think she was some kind of pushover, an innocent little girl who blushed as soon as one of them said something the least bit dirty. She wanted them to consider her one of the lads. Though it was true, what she had said. She felt exhausted. "I . . . I'm sorry." She cleared her throat. "I didn't mean . . . that came out wrong. . ."

"It's okay, love," John said softly, eyes apologetic. "I should've realised that you've been through just as much as we have today."

She felt the sting in his words, though he mayn't have intended any. He was right; they'd all had a long day. If anything, the time-travelling quartet deserved to be grouchier than she did.

"Come on," she murmured, climbing up the stairs. Paul, Ringo and George looked to John, and he shrugged, following her up to the first floor. The stairs were narrow, and covered in threadbare green carpeting, worn thin by the years of feet trekking up and down. They came out onto a small landing, and looked around.

The walls were covered in psychedelic wallpaper, brightly-coloured swirling patterns churning like globs in lava lamps across the aging walls. The once-vibrant wallpaper was faded from the sunlight, which leaked in during the day through the heavy black drapes shrouding the large lone window, and had started to peel away from the damp-affected walls. There was a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, dimly lighting their path, and the same green carpet which covered the stairs continued on up here, running from wall to wall. Two doors interrupted the flowing pattern on the walls, and Hayley led them over to the one painted purple.

Her eyes flickering down to the floor as her embarrassment reddened her cheeks, she fumbled again for a key within her bag. The boys, picking up on her shame, stood back awkwardly, without a word, as she opened the door. None of them wanted to put a foot wrong with her, so they kept their mouths shut.

She pushed the door open, and flicked a switch on the wall, turning on the lights. She held the door open for them, and they filed in quietly.

As soon as they stepped in, they all breathed a sigh of relief. Her apartment wasn't as dilapidated and neglected as the rest of the building; in fact, it was quite homely.

"Well, thank God for that," Ringo said, rather tactlessly.

Hayley knew what they were thinking, and chuckled softly. "Yeah, it's not that bad. It mightn't be the Ritz, but it's warm, comfortable, and cockroach-free." She smiled at them, before depositing her well-travelled bag onto the small dining table, and opening her mail.

While she sat at the table, the boys had a quick look around. There was one bathroom, clean and filled with the mint-sweet fragrance of toothpaste, one bedroom, which they politely left alone, a well-loved kitchen, with a selection of herbs growing on the windowsill, a combined lounge and dining room, and, finally, a marvellous room that they immediately fell in love with.

Wandering back to the young woman rubbing her temples and staring at an assortment of bank statements, John asked, "Oi, lass, what's that room over there for?" He gestured to the room, and the other three lads poked their heads out the door, interested in her explanation.

She smiled fondly, remembering the hours she had spent transforming it after her old roommate had moved out. "It's my sanctuary."

"Like, what they do with peacocks?" Ringo asked sleepily, eliciting scornful looks from all the others.

"No. . ." she said slowly, shaking her head. "Like what they do with crazy people when they start talking to themselves."

"Oh, okay, makes sense," he said thoughtfully. George rolled his eyes, and slapped the drummer over the back of the head affectionately.

"Don't be such a dill, Starkey. You're making us look bad."

"Hey, I'm just tired, is all!"

Paul looked away from the bickering pair, and continued the conversation John had started. "What's it for?"

Looking down at the papers in her hand, black with ink, she sighed, and vowed to get around to them later. She stood, and walked over to them. She cast her gaze around the room, and ran her hand affectionately along the shelves lining the room. This room was her favourite place in the world.

The walls were lined with bookcases, which overflowed with books of all shapes and sizes. The books were placed two-deep, in order to maximise space, and some had even been wedged in sideways on top of other books. The wonderfully musty smell of decade-old paper and ink leached into the very air, and she inhaled deeply, savouring the nostalgic smell, and the emotions it conjured. In one corner of the room, there was an antique writing desk, littered with paper, pens, textbooks and CDs, still covered in the clutter she had needed for her assignment the night before. In the middle sat a newly-restored typewriter, which she tried to use for as much as she could. She'd been known to use it to write a shopping list, birthday cards, and even her uni assignments. She loved it, but still couldn't imagine living without her laptop, which rested in one of the thin drawers beneath the desk. The final element of her beloved haven rested in the opposite corner, bringing balance and harmony to the room's lay-out. It was a small, honey-coloured upright piano, which she had been amazingly lucky enough to find at a second-hand sale, shortly after starting at Oxford. There were piles of manuscript scattered around, and a guitar was propped up against the wall next to it. At the moment, the lid was open, and the music for Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata' rested above the keys.

"Whaddya mean, 'what's it for'? Isn't it kinda obvious?" she teased, waggling her eyebrows.

"Well, yeah, but why is it the way it is?" Paul asked again, fatigue obviously reducing his capacity for wordplay.

John scoffed, and walked over to the piano. "Paulie, never be a writer. I don't think the English language could survive." He sat down, and started to play something that sounded reminiscent of 'Please, Please Me'. The others immediately picked up on his musical wavelength, and started to hum along absent-mindedly as they scanned her bookshelves for something they recognised, Ringo tapping a beat out against his thigh.

Her heart froze as she realised what she was watching. She was observing what was, in her opinion, the greatest band ever, in create mode. This was how things such as Abbey Road, The White Album, Revolver, and so many others, had come about. Almost a decade's worth of music had resulted from their musical chemistry, and lyrical genius. She scolded herself for being such a fangirl, and banished these thoughts from her mind.

"To answer your weirdly-worded question, Paul, the books are here because I can't work properly without that magnificent musky perfume, and I love to read. I've always wanted to have a library like this."

John abruptly stopped playing, and spun around to face them. "You love to read?"

She was about to answer his pointless query, but she caught sight of a certain book by a certain Lennon fellow, and flew across the room. She hastily snatched it, and stuffed it under her top. "Oh, yes. Absolutely. Reading is brilliant," she answered vaguely, acting nonchalant.

They looked at her oddly.

"I'm beginning to think that you're a tad strange, lass. At first I thought it was just the future, but, no, now I'm pretty sure it's just you." John stood up from the piano, and stepped toward her, eyeing the book-shaped lump under her t-shirt. He wanted to see what she was keeping from them.

"A-and the desk?" Paul stammered, puzzled by her weird behaviour.

She swatted John's meddling hands away, and looked up to the handsome bass player. "I'm a writer. Well, I say writer. . . " she trailed off, wrapping her arms around her stomach in an attempt to keep John from getting at his future book.

"Well, what are you, then?" George asked, muttering his first words in quite a while. He definitely had been living up to his reputation of being the Quiet Beatle.

"Well, I want to be a writer, and I do write, though only mediocre drivel. But up until this morning, I've been too busy to write that much."

"Why?" Paul asked, as George grabbed John and held his arms firmly behind his back to stop him pestering Hayley.

"I'm a- I mean, I was a student, at Oxford, for three years. I handed in my last assignment just this morning. I'm a free woman." She chuckled darkly. "If only I had the slightest clue what to do with my newfound freedom."

"You could work for the lads at Playboy. Or, if you really wanna be a writer, you could write some wonderfully graphic bodice-rippers," John suggested, trying to wrestle his arms out of George's strong hold.

"You could go travelling. That's what people normally do," Ringo suggested quietly, using the bookshelves to prop himself up. He really was tired. Being a drummer used a lot of energy.

"You could come and work for us," George offered, grinning widely as he restrained the struggling John. "We're gonna be big, one day soon. Real big."

"You don't know how tempting that is," she admitted, knowing that it could never happen.

"What about the piano?" Paul asked, eyes raking over it appraisingly, the way most teenage boys look at half-naked girls in magazines.

"I've always had one around, and this one was a bargain. I'd left my old one back home, see." She drifted over to it and ran a pale hand along the keys. "It's actually my job."

"What do you do?"

She cleared her throat. "I, ah, I play at weddings. Sometimes I play as part of a little band-like thing." They looked at her blankly. "Hey, I'm a student, for crying out loud – I need the money!" They still remained stony-faced. "Don't judge me!"

"Oh, we're judging you, all right," John said, and the others nodded in agreement.

She scowled, and turned away. "That's the room, end of story. Now, let's set you up for bed before Ringo collapses."

She walked into the living room, and pushed the dining table against one wall. She then started to clear the floor, picking up clothes, books and other assorted bric-a-brac. She stood, and saw them hovering in the archway, watching her.

"We're not really judging you, you know," George murmured.

"Yeah, it's pretty cool, what you do," Paul added. "Do you ever get to play an organ? I've always wanted to muck around on one."

She started to answer, when John interrupted with his usual dirty comment. "I know an organ you can play." He winked at her, and George thumped him. Ringo ignored them, and sat on the couch, sinking into the plush navy-blue cushions. He curled up into a ball, and squeezed his eyes shut. Hayley smiled at his cuteness.

"I have some spare toothbrushes you can have, and I s'pose you could try and borrow some of my pj's, though they mightn't fit." She imagined them squeezing into her TARDIS pyjamas, and giggled. "Now, I'll need your help in carrying out the mattresses. Any volunteers?"

"Sure," John offered. "I volunteer Paul. And George."

The two rolled their eyes, but didn't object. They were true gentlemen.

"Awesome."

Hayley led them to her bedroom, and they kept their eyes glued to the purple floor. She reached under the bed, and started pulling out two single mattresses. She passed them on to the boys, who carried them into the lounge room. They walked in to find John flicking Ringo, and easily dodging the attempts made by the poor boy to stop him.

"Oh, leave him alone, Johnny," Paul said exasperatedly. "You've been right silly today, you have."

"Yeah," George seconded. "And so you can help Hayley fetch the other mattress."

The girl chuckled at how this was obviously seen as a punishment. When John pulled a face, she said, "Oh, don't worry, Johnny-boy – it's not as bad as you think it is."

Making sure the other three knew what they were doing when they assembled the beds, she led John back into the psychedelic landing, and up to the other apartment door.

"Now, don't say anything," she warned. "Mrs. Dubose has a very weak heart. Your looks alone will probably test it."

He raised an eyebrow. "Was that a compliment, love?"

"No." She knocked a few times on the door, and waited patiently for her elderly neighbour to shuffle toward it. Eventually, the door swung open to reveal a white-haired, shrivelled woman with skin like pale parchment.

"Oh, hello dear," she croaked. "Who's yer friend?"

Hayley smiled. "Hi, Mrs. Dubose. This is Aaron." Before he could have a chance to talk, she continued. "Mrs. Dubose, I have some friends staying over tonight, and I was wondering if I could borrow your spare mattress again, if that's alright."

The old lady smiled. "Of course, dear. You're such a good girl. It's where it always is, you know."

"Thanks, Mrs. Dubose."

The elderly lady stood aside, and Hayley walked into the apartment, which reeked of cat urine. John reluctantly followed, knowing he had no choice. He followed her to a small storage room, and helped her carry out a large double mattress, stepping over cats, and resisting the urge to drop the mattress and pet them. He loved cats.

Mrs. Dubose moved out of their way when they reached the door, and they carefully guided the mattress through the narrow doorway. After a few moments, they had cleared it, and carried it over to Hayley's front door.

"Thanks Mrs. Dubose!" Hayley called from across the landing, as the old lady closed her door. "She's a nice old lady."

"Anyone with that many cats is slightly bonkers, though, you have to admit."

"Oh, definitely."

They carried the mattress into the living room, and dumped it onto the floor. The others had just finished making up the other beds, with sheets and blankets Hayley had given them before leaving, and looked up with a sense of achievement.

"Okay, you guys can make this one as well, while I get ready for bed. I'm knackered. Then you can have the bathroom."

She stood for a moment, trying to imprint the image of John, Paul, George and Ringo in her living room onto her mind, and then walked into her bedroom and started to get undressed.

Sitting on the edge of her king-single bed, she unlaced her Converse and kicked them off, making them fly across the room into a large jumble of shoes. She then peeled off her jeans, and carefully folded them, laying them on her dressing table. She pulled her t-shirt off over her head, and unclasped her bra. Tossing them carefully onto the neatly-folded jeans, she reached under her pillow for her red silk boxers, and matching red tank top. Sliding them on, she allowed herself to daydream about the proximity of the four handsome, attractive lads to her bedroom. This was eerily similar to how many of her fantasies began.

She stepped into a pair of warm, woolly slippers, and walked to the bathroom, hearing giggling coming from the living room. She quickly brushed her teeth, washed her face and hid all embarrassing items before giving the room a short burst of air-freshener. She walked out feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, and even less of a need to sleep than before.

She walked to the living room to tell the boys that the bathroom was free, but got distracted by what they were up to.

George had rolled himself up in a doona, and John and Paul had rested one end of the larger mattress on the couch, to make it into a ramp. Ringo rested at the bottom of the ramp, also wrapped in a doona. John and Paul then carried the George-bundle to the top of the ramp, and dropped it, cackling wildly. The laughing guitarist rolled down the angled mattress, and smashed into the drummer, making him spin off across the carpet.

"This is what happens when you're left to do normal, mundane things," she scolded. "You have to make them fun, don't you?"

John looked at Paul with a calculating glimmer in his eye, and then Paul looked at George.

"She's right. George, gimme the doona."

George reluctantly stood and unravelled himself, and handed the doona to Paul.

"Now, what were we supposed to do with this, Hayley, if it wasn't to make cocoons?" asked John, looking at her innocently. "Surely, making a cocoon is the only thing they're good for."

She was wary of the intelligent boy, and cautiously replied, "You'd be surprised, Lennon, at the amount of things a doona can be used for."

"Well, obviously, you've never been in a cocoon."

She looked at him warningly. "Don't you dare-"

"Now!" he yelled, and Paul ran toward her, throwing the doona around her and wrapping her up tightly. She squealed, and started squirming against the silky fabric. Ringo threw off his blanket-y restraints, and he and George ran over to help John and Paul pin her down. Once she was tightly bound, the four of them sat on her.

"It's time to start talking, sugar," John drawled in a harsh, mid-western accent, straight out of an old-fashioned crime movie. Underneath the thick layers of blanket, she started giggling, and played along.

"Oh, please sir! I don't know nothin'! Yer wastin' yer time, you is!"

He turned to the others, eyebrow raised, and whispered, "I don't believe her, lads. There's nowhere for her to run now. I suggest we start our . . . cross-examination."

They smirked evilly, and slid off her quickly. They paused, poised to attack, and waited for John to deliver the final warning.

"This is it, sugar. You have one more chance. Do you have anything to say?"

"Go to hell!"

"That's it, lads!" he ordered. "Attack!"

They started to quickly roll her across the carpet, pushing her with all their might. She laughed deliriously as she spun around, getting dizzy. The boys started to laugh as well, taking delight in torturing her so.

After a few minutes, they guided her to a stop, and sat on her once again. She struggled to regain her breath as they crushed her lungs.

"Now, doll-face, have you got anything to say?"

"Fine, fine! Ask away!"

"Do we make it?" Ringo asked. "Are we famous in the future?"

She froze, wondering whether it was a good idea to say anything. "Uh, your music definitely lives on. And you receive the recognition you deserve."

They started whooping, and high-fived.

A wide grin on his face, Paul admitted he'd guessed as much. The others asked how, and he told them how Hayley had known who they were without them ever telling her their names.

Hayley cursed quietly under her breath.

"Do we all fall in love?" George asked nervously, not wanting his friends to think he was asking a sissy question.

"Multiple times," Hayley replied. "And occasionally even with other people."

Ringo and John poked her, and tried not to laugh.

"Who's your favourite?" John asked, for some reason hoping to hear her say his name. "Surely everyone nowadays has a favourite Beatle."

She thought her answer over carefully. "Pete Best."

"Pete?" Paul exclaimed. "Surely, he can't be. . ."

While they were still in a state of surprise, she used all her power to throw them off, and they landed safely on the mattresses and pillows covering the floor. Standing, the doona still draped over her, she raised her arms victoriously, and started singing the Australian national anthem. "She wins again!" she hollered, running a victory lap around the room, while the bemused boys watched.

Suddenly, running past the kitchen, she caught sight of a Post-It note on the fridge, and remembered why she'd put it there. Crestfallen, she returned to the boys, and dumped the doona on the floor.

"I have to go to work in the morning," she said, "which means that I probably won't be here when you wake up. I'll make your breakfast before I leave, if you want, but you have to promise me that you won't leave the apartment. I should be back by mid-afternoon – it's an early wedding."

The Beatles, particularly John and George, seemed disappointed by this, but still promised to stay in the apartment.

"The, uh, the bathroom's free, so I guess I'll just leave you to get some sleep." She was reluctant to leave them, in case they had vanished by the time she woke up, like the dream she just knew they were all products of.

They'd all kicked off their shoes, pulled off their jackets, undone their ties, and rolled up their sleeves. Somehow they'd managed to eat all that spaghetti without getting one drop of sauce on their crisp white shirts. She was quite proud of them.

"Good night, love," George smiled.

"Night, and thanks again," Paul said gratefully, running a hand through his hair.

"Good night, Hayley," Ringo yawned, blinking quickly to keep his eyes open.

"Yeah, night," John said brusquely. He stood up abruptly and walked to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

She sighed exasperatedly, and bade the other three good night.

As she slid into bed, and turned off her bedside lamp, she wondered if her dreams really had come true. She could hear the band of brothers talking quietly amongst each other, and the steady rumble of their voices sounded perfectly at home in the cosy apartment. She silently congratulated herself for not fainting once since stumbling upon them. She just hoped she could keep it up.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Apologies for taking so long in posting! As usual, LIFE managed to get in the way! God, that's so annoying, don't you find? Anyway, this author sends her UTMOST gratitude to everyone who reviewed, favourite and even simply read the previous four chapters (plus prologue). Please continue to do the same for this one, and all its successors! Because this one is only short, the next chapter will be posted in next to no time at all – promise! Anyway, do enjoy the latest instalment of 'Girl' – a Beatles ****fanfiction**** tale. :D**

Over the next half an hour, as she failed to get to sleep, she heard them, one after the other, walk to the bathroom, use the facilities on offer, then rejoin the group. In fact, she heard quite a lot, as she tossed and turned for the next couple of hours. None of it was distinct, but she heard giggles, whispers, singing and playful arguments.

Eventually, at two-thirty on Friday morning, she threw off her covers and wrapped herself in a blanket, carefully stepping over shoes, clothes, and other painful objects scattered throughout her rather messy room. She quietly walked to the kitchen, chuckling softly at the adorable pile of limbs known as The Beatles.

Starting off with two on the double mattress and one each on the single mattresses, they had now somehow all rolled onto the larger one, sleeping on each other like a litter of puppies. They were a tangle of boy, blanket and pillow, and she saw her guitar propped up safely on the lounge; she knew she'd heard them singing for quite a while after the lights had gone out.

Being careful not to wake them, she slipped into the dark kitchen, and tip-toed over to the fridge. She carefully pulled the heavy door open and took out a carton of milk. She poured herself a glass, and was moving to put it back, when she saw John Lennon hovering in the doorway, the refrigerator light casting his shadow across the floor and into the other room.

Waiting for her heart to slow back down to a normal pace, she picked up her glass of milk and walked over to him angrily. She poked him hard in the chest, and admonished him. "Don't scare me like that, you twit."

He smiled wearily, and caught her hand before it could poke him a second time. "Hey, it's your fault I'm awake."

"Oh," she said, feeling silly. "Sorry. I just couldn't sleep."

"Bed too empty?" he asked slyly, the corners of his lips twitching with mirth.

"Of course. In fact, it's why I'm about to join the sleeping moshpit over there – I can't sleep in an empty bed."

"A pretty girl like you mustn't have to deal with empty beds that often, surely?"

She gave a genuine laugh. "Is that what you think? How sweet."

He didn't say anything in return, just smiled a brilliantly cheeky smile.

She started to blush, and was grateful he couldn't see her pink cheeks in the darkened room. She realised he still was holding her hand. His skin was surprisingly soft, and very warm. She could feel the beginnings of calluses on the tips of his fingers from constantly playing the guitar, and a little dip on the side of one of the fingers from writing.

She cleared her throat, and pulled her hand out of his grasp. He didn't object, so she assumed he hadn't intended to hold onto her for as long as he had.

Deciding to ignore him, she took a sip of milk, and silently walked through the lounge room, stepping over legs and arms. She reached some floor-length curtains, and pulled them aside to reveal two glass sliding doors, leading to a small balcony. The light from the street lamps outside fell onto Paul, George and Ringo's peaceful, sleeping faces, and she resisted the urge to squeeze their cheeks.

She slowly slid the doors open, and stepped out onto the little balcony, pulling her blanket tighter as the brisk morning attacked her like ice-cold pinpricks. She was about to close the door behind her, when John caught it, and opened it again, joining her. He quietly slid the doors closed, and leant against the railings, looking out at the city.

Her apartment block was on the top of a hill, and so, while Garial Lane lay dormant, they could see over to busy London town, where lights, traffic and people were bustling about like it was just the beginning of the evening. They stood quietly for many minutes, observing the city, with the girl sipping her milk.

"I'm John Lennon," he said after fifteen minutes or so, turning to her with an honest look on his face. "I'm twenty-two, and in a band, from Liverpool. I'm fifty-three years away from home, and I'm very, very pleased to meet you." He smiled at her sweetly, and shook her spare, non-milk-holding hand. She smiled back at him, and wrapped both hands around her glass.

"I'm Hayley Evans. I'm twenty, and about to graduate from Oxford University. I'm a few continents away from home, and I'm absolutely honoured to meet you."

"A few continents, ay? Where's home, then?" He leant against the rails and crossed his arms, allowing her to see the faint hint of his biceps through the fabric of his shirt.

"Sydney, Australia."

He looked at her in confusion. She didn't sound Australian. "Down under?"

She chuckled briefly. "Yeah, that's it. Why – surprised?

"Just a tad." He looked at her closely. "You don't sound Aussie, and you're not tanned, and you went to Oxford. Forgive me for having difficulty believing you."

She rolled her eyes, and sighed. She was used to this by now. "Firstly, I don't tan – I burn. Secondly, I have a slightly Aussie, more international accent, rather than something more like Crocodile Dundee's harsh vowels."

"Crocodile Whatsit?"

"Don't worry. Thirdly, I won a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford. Best thing that's ever happened to me."

He scoffed. "Never really saw the point of university myself. I went to art school, but couldn't imagine doing anything more serious. What did you study?"

"English, with some history and music. I had to convince them that it was a logical workload, and eventually they let me." She turned back to the view, and leant against the cool metal railing. She had had to work extremely hard for three years, but now it was all over, and she was graduating. Life was very, very sweet.

"What did your family think of you moving halfway across the world?" He stood next to her, genuinely interested in her story. She was puzzled by his interest, and so was he. He never usually gave a shit about what pretty girls had to say. As long as it wasn't, 'Sorry, I've got a boyfriend'.

"Ah, well, they were very understanding. I was only seventeen when I graduated from high school, so I needed their permission. I think my parents were grateful, though – they have their hands full enough as it is." He looked at her quizzically. "I have four brothers, one older than me, and the other three younger. They're all insane." She grinned affectionately, imagining them driving her parents up the wall.

"Four brothers?" He cast a glance towards the sleeping band members, imagining the brunette becoming part of their tight-knit little family. It wasn't a horrible vision. She was already starting to forge her own place among them.

"What about you, Lennon?" she asked, knowing how he would answer. She knew all about him, she did.

He cleared his throat loudly, and rubbed a hand across his face. "Don't have one, really. Just me Aunt Mimi."

She respected his privacy, and was going to change subject, when he continued. "Me mum and dad didn't really want me, so she raised me. I love her, I really do."

She hesitantly placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure they regretted it every day for the rest of their lives."

He rolled his eyes, ignoring the pleasant warmth of her hand through his shirt. "I met me mum when I was fifteen, after years of thinking she was basically dead." He rested his head against the rails, and squeezed his eyes shut. "She lived just around the corner from Mimi's. And I'd never known."

Hayley didn't know what to say. She wished Paul was here. He'd know what to do. He and John were practically twins.

"If she was your mother, she must have been incredible. I bet you loved her."

"I hated her at first, for leaving me. Then I loved her, so much. Then she left me again, and I hated her." He didn't know why he was telling her so much; he decided it was due to the fact that it was nearly three a.m., he'd travelled in time, and his exhausted brain couldn't find a reason _**not**_ to tell her.

"And now?"

"Now. . ." he trailed off, trying to work out what he felt. "Now, I just wish I'd had more time with her. I do love her, because she'll always be a part of me. But she wasn't really my mother – Mimi was. Mimi still is." It was then that the reality dawned on him that Mimi was probably long-dead in Hayley's world. If they didn't work out a way to get home, he would never be able to talk to her again. He started to get choked up, and was silent for a minute as he tried to get his emotions under control. He didn't want anyone, let alone a relative stranger, to see him so vulnerable.

Hayley didn't bother him. She left her hand where it was, and the two of them stood there until the sky lightened, contemplating the twists and turns their futures held in store.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: So, here's the second of today's chapters. HOPE YOU ENJOY! Please read, and then let me know what you think! It would mean THE WORLD to me! Wow, I've used a lot of exclamation marks! Until next time, dear readers! :D**

Hayley cast a final glance around the apartment, double-checking that she'd done everything she needed to. There were freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen for The Beatles' breakfast, some coffee for Ringo, a note with emergency contact details scrawled in her flowing handwriting, and a pile of spoiler-free, carefully selected movies, with instructions on how to work the DVD player. She made sure she had her music, her mobile was fully-charged, and she'd remembered to put in all three pairs of earrings.

The sun was just rising, and, from the rays slipping in between the curtains, the sweet litter of human puppies were illuminated in a way only the morning sun could. She gazed affectionately at the sleeping boys. After their serious moment last night on the balcony, John had slipped back in between Paul and Ringo, worming his way into the middle of the pile once again. She almost laughed when she saw George's foot smooshed against Paul's face, and Ringo's crotch awfully close to John's hand. God, they were adorable. And hilarious.

She looked down at her watch, and cursed softly. It was seven-thirty; too early to be awake after a day like yesterday. She blew the oblivious lads a kiss, and closed the door quietly behind her.

It was only a short while later that they started to stir. John, exhausted from his late night talking to their host, burrowed underneath the doonas and scrunched his eyes shut, trying to stay asleep as long as possible. Of course, with friends as loving and understanding as Paul, George and Ringo, he didn't know why he bothered.

"Get up, sleepy-head!" George laughed, shaking him. "There are some delicious-looking cookies here, and you won't get any if you don't get up soon."

"Shh!" Paul motioned for him to be quiet. "The less for him, the more for us, understand?"

"Yeah," Ringo agreed, spraying crumbs over the carpet as he wolfed down the delicious biscuits. "They're rather tasty."

"Hey, don't eat them all!" George cried, jumping up off the floor and running into the kitchen.

John started groaning. Paul knelt down next to him. "You okay, John? I heard you get up in the middle of the night. Everything alright?" He spoke quietly, not wanting the others to overhear.

His best friend rolled onto his back, and looked up. "Paul, what happens if . . . if we don't find a way back?" His eyes were bloodshot, and Paul doubted he'd slept much at all. He must've been plagued by thoughts like this all night long. While the other two fought over cookies in the kitchen, he decided to hide his own fears, all the better to comfort John.

"Well, you trust Hayley, don't you?"

"Yeah. . ."

"And she'll do whatever it takes to get us home. Don't worry, Johnny, we'll soon be home again." He ruffled John's hair affectionately. "You'll speak to Mimi before you know it."

John decided to believe him, and suddenly jumped up.

"I believe someone mentioned cookies, my dear fellow. Cookies!"

The four of them were almost finished watching the first movie, _Blades of Glory_, when the phone rang. Unsure of what to do, George and Ringo pressured Paul into picking up the receiver. John lay on the floor, trying to catch up on lost sleep.

"Hello?"

"Oh, Paul, thank God."

It was Hayley, and a rather stressed Hayley at that.

"Hayley? What is it?"

She was quiet for a moment.

"Hayley?"

"Do you think you guys could help me out?"

"I'll ask." He turned to the others. "Can we help her out?"

"Of course," Ringo assured, as George and a sleepy John nodded in agreement.

Paul put the phone back to his ear. "Yep, we can help. What's up?"

"Well, the wedding's over now. It went really well, by the way."

"Ooh, did you get to play an organ?"

"Yeah, it was so awesome! The marvellous acoustic of the church almost brought tears to my eyes every time I so much as played a note."

"What was the foot pedalling like?"

"It was okay. I've done some before, but I'm still a way off from being proficient at it."

"Cool."

There was an awkward silence for a few moments, as Paul received incredulous looks from the others.

"What?"

"Ask her what she needs!" George cried, as Ringo and John rolled their eyes.

"So, what's the problem, Hayley?"

"Well, I was talking to the lucky couple, and they were saying how wonderful I was and everything, and then they got a call from the people they'd hired to play at the reception-"

"Uh-oh, that doesn't sound good."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Anyway, turns out that the band got into a little accident, and can't make it this afternoon."

She fell silent. Paul guessed why. "Let me guess – you volunteered your services?"

"They're newlyweds! How can you let anything ruin their big day?" she cried.

"And where do we fit in?"

"Well . . . could you please come and play with me? I need a band, and who better than you guys?"

Paul thought it over, and turned to the others. "Should we go and play at some couple's wedding reception?"

"What's the pay?" John enquired, twiddling with an imaginary moustache.

Hayley heard him. "I'll pay you in baked goods. And I'll help you get home."

She picked up on their whispering, and hoped they'd agree to help.

"Sure," Paul said, and she whooped happily.

Ten hours later, an exhausted but happy John, George, Ringo, Paul and Hayley lay collapsed around a large circular table. Waiters and waitresses picked up dirty plates, half-eaten bread rolls, and lipstick-smeared champagne glasses, and cleaners were starting to collect confetti and streamers.

"I love my job," Hayley murmured, resting her head on the table and gazing at her champagne glass. Well, her eleventh champagne glass.

Ringo hiccupped, and George punched him in the arm.

"What was that for?" he cried, rubbing his new bruise.

"I dunno," George smiled innocently. "Your face made me do it."

Paul rubbed his temples. "Oh, shut up, you two. You're cleaving me head in twain, you is."

John hummed to himself, pleased with the gig. He had borrowed a pen from Hayley, and was doodling little creations on the pale flesh of her inner arm which had been flung out across the white tablecloth. The day had gone very well.

After Hayley had given them instructions, they'd cleaned themselves up, grabbed her guitar, and locked up the apartment. Following a written set of directions she'd dictated to Paul, they spent two hours getting lost, wandering around the city, and eventually finding the hotel where the reception was being held. Hayley had greeted them, surprisingly, with hugs, and introduced them to everyone as The Bootles, a Beatles rip-off group. Everyone seemed to believe her, and so it was without any difficulty at all that they'd managed to use some equipment Hayley had borrowed from some of her more musical friends, and start the gig.

Hayley was very careful that they didn't accept any requests. They stuck to songs the 'Bootles' knew, which was essentially just a load of covers and a handful of their own stuff. But overall, the positive vibe of the happy gathering made the party-goers oblivious to what exactly was being played, and there hadn't been any problems at all.

They'd been paid with dinner and free drinks from the bar. As her vision started to swim, Hayley realised that taking the happy couple up on their well-meant offer was perhaps not the smartest of ideas.

"You guys are brilliant, you are," she said, going to grab her glass. George quickly moved it out if her reach. "You're my favouritest band ever, and no one will ever come close to your absolute fuckin' genius."

Being the first swear word they'd heard fall past her lips, they all looked up at her in shock. John stopped drawing, and sat back in his chair with an amused look. She'd drunk more than the four of them combined.

"I mean, seriously. Justin fuckin' Bieber? Gimme a fuckin' break! What'd that little prick ever do to get the same level of screaming as you four? I mean, for fuck's sake – you're the Beatles! What more can I say?" She gestured wildly, almost knocking over her glass. "You're gods, you are. Fucking gods."

She rested her head on the table for a few minutes. After a while, she looked back up. She moaned softly, running her hands through her hair. "George, can I go home now? John? Ringo? Paul? I wanna go home."

Paul and Ringo looked at her with kindness in their eyes, as George wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Yep, Hales, let's go. Have you got everything?"

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. He was taken aback. "No, I mean I want to go _**home**_ home."

"Australia?" John asked, drawing looks of confusion from the others. "That's her home. Not stupid Garial Lane, or Oxford, or even England. Just like our _**home**_ home is Liverpool, 1962. She's as far away from home as we are." He carefully, and very delicately, brushed her hair out of her eyes. She bit her lip as he gazed at her.

"Let's go home, lads. I'm just as homesick as she is."

They quickly agreed, knowing that John was serious when he was serious.

George and John walked her to the hotel entrance while Paul and Ringo collected up all their belongings.

"George, I miss mum and dad," Hayley sobbed, clearly not used to large amounts of alcohol. "I miss Leo, and Alex, and Hayden, and Will."

"Her brothers," John explained. George nodded in understanding, and just held her tighter, feeling tingles spread through him more and more the longer he touched her.

John quickly began comforting her. His fellow Beatle was unaccustomed to seeing him so kind. "Hales, it's okay. You'll be seeing them soon. You've gone three years without seeing them – I'm sure three more days won't kill you."

She looked up at him with wide, round eyes. His words were having the desired effect, and she was beginning to calm down. "But I have this feeling that something's happening. Something bad."

He shushed her, and held her hand. Even in her intoxicated state, she felt something stir within her at his touch. Maybe it was just timey-wimey stuff.

George quickly felt for her other hand, and that was how the others found them; the two Beatles holding the quietly crying girl's hands.

"Let's get back home, shall we?" Paul said softly, as Ringo hailed a taxi, and found success.

George and the drummer helped the girl into the back seat of the black car, as John and Paul hung back.

"Paul, we should try and get back home tomorrow. We'll go back to the recording studio."

"I agree. We'll go first thing in the morning. Is she alright?" Paul asked, worried eyes scanning her through the glass in the open taxi door.

John was surprised at Paul's interest – out of all the Beatles, the left-handed bassist seemed to be the one cared for her the least. "She's had too much to drink. Poor bird isn't used to it, I imagine. She'll be right as rain in the morning."

"You're sure? There isn't something we can do? The poor lass 'as been so kind to us, it's the least we could do." He loosened his tie, and cleared his throat. "Maybe we could take her back with us. Give 'er a tour of the Swinging Sixties, seeing as how she's given us a tour of the . . . what did she call 'em?"

"The Noughties? No, that was the last one. . ." John had liked the sound of that decade.

"The Twenty-Teens?"

"The Tweenies?"

"Oi, you two!" George interrupted. "Hurry up, won't you?"

"Right away, guv'na!" John mockingly bowed, and doffed an imaginary top hat. He and Paul exchanged a final look, and clambered in after the others.

"Garial Lane, please good sir," Paul said politely, stepping into the front seat and sitting next to the driver.

"God, I hate that place," Hayley muttered from the back seat. "Such a dump. And the neighbours are bonkers."

John chuckled, and wrapped her hand in his. She sighed happily, and he felt stupidly proud that he had caused such a sincere reaction. He ran his fingertips over the smooth surface of her pink nail varnish, as she closed her eyes and rested her head on Ringo's shoulder. Ringo smiled, and adjusted himself slightly so she was more comfortable.

George leant back in his seat, and crossed his legs casually. Feeling something brush against his thigh, he looked down to see her hand searching for the one she had been holding onto earlier. Smiling happily, he acquiesced to her silent request, and his hand crept forward until their fingers were once again entwined.

Paul spun around in his seat, and almost laughed. She definitely was an attention-whore when she was drunk. Maybe it was because it was only when inebriated that she knew that no one would refuse her – maybe her sober self buried this knowledge, and succeeded in being more modest.

She definitely was pretty. She was wearing a simple black tunic, with a crisp white shirt and a feminine black bow, tied loosely around her neck in broad black ribbon. She had elegant black high heels on her feet, which Paul had noticed her kicking off while they performed, and black lace tights. The tunic reached to just above her knees, and when he looked closer, he saw that the fabric had faint grey pinstripes running through it. She had a large belt with an ornate metal buckle wrapped around her waist, which he noticed with surprise was quiet petite. He had never realised. At the moment, her shirt sleeves were rolled up, and John's scribbles covered her left arm, like an artistic tattoo. It suddenly hit him that all their outfits matched – they would've looked good on stage together.

With both her hands held by Beatles, and her head being cradled by another, Paul realised that they could definitely work as a family – it wouldn't be the end of the world if they were stuck with her.

Of course, if they were stuck _**in this time**_ with her, then it definitely was.

The journey passed slowly, Friday night traffic being the most horrendous. They didn't say much, but then again, they didn't feel the need to. After twenty-four hours, some alcohol and John's words back at the hotel, it had finally sunk in for all of them that they were quite a long way from home. They were starting to miss their families, their homes and their world. It seemed so far away, though technically they could go to Liverpool and visit the houses they grew up in. It just wasn't the same. It was like saying they were going to visit their family, and then visiting the cemetery. Which they could also do in this century.

Hayley had completely blacked out by the time they pulled up outside the apartment block. John leant over and politely rummaged through her pockets for the cab fare, as the others thanked the driver and got out. Paul opened the door on the other side, and slid the unconscious girl out, before John even had a chance to undo her seatbelt. Paul then carried her to the front door, as Ringo let them in, and George carried up all their things. John looked on as the handsome young man cradled the pretty young girl, and felt a slight twinge of jealousy. He quickly told himself to forget it; it was just the champagne. Paul was simply trying to be helpful.

"Hurry up, John," Ringo called. "Some of us are tired, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," John muttered, walking up the gravel path sullenly.

Paul rolled his eyes. He wasn't dumb. "God, man, if you're going to act like this, then why don't you just take her?"

John tried to mask his surprise. Trust Paul to know how he was feeling. "What're you talkin' about? Isn't it Prince Charming who always carries the sleeping beauty across the landing, and gently lays her on the soft cover of her duvet, kissing her softly on the forehead and wishing her sweet dreams? We all know who the Prince Charming is here, and it's definitely not me."

There was an awkward silence as the three others stared at him. Hayley muttered something in her sleep, and wriggled in Paul's arms, burrowing her head against his chest.

"You're right potty when you wanna be, you know," George said.

"Oh, shut it, Harrison," John said, wishing things were plain and simple, in a black and white similar to their outfits. "I was just foolin' around. You know there's no point fallin' for a bird this side of nineteen-seventy."

"Not to mention you're engaged," Ringo chimed in, feeling as though someone had to stand up for poor old (and probably dead) Cynthia.

John had evidently forgotten this slightly-important fact, as he fell silent. The others knew it was a touchy subject, and George gave Ringo the evil eye for bringing it up.

Shuffling Hayley around in his arms, Paul walked to the stairs and climbed them two at a time. The others followed, and held the door to her apartment open for him, after crossing the little landing.

"Right, lads," John said, as though the conversation downstairs hadn't taken place. "I call dibs on the bathroom first."

"Wonder what you're gonna use it for," George said, a smirk playing with the corners of his mouth.

John playfully slammed him against the wall, and held a finger threateningly near his throat. "Oh, you did _**not**_ just say that, Georgie-boy."

George just looked at him cheekily and grinned his signature crooked grin.

"That's it!" John started to poke him, harder than he probably intended. The younger boy tried to squirm away, and managed to flee into the lounge room, where their bedding still littered the floor. John chased after him, and they started to laugh. George, being a klutz, tripped over his own feet and fell on a mattress.

"Gotcha!" John cried, lunging at him, and jumping on top of him. He pinned him against the mattress, and started punching him softly in the stomach and chest.

"John!" Ringo cried, wandering out of the kitchen with a crudely crafted peanut butter sandwich in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "What's he done now?"

George, between guffaws, gasped for breath, and pleaded with the other two. "John, get off! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" When that didn't work, he turned to the other. "Ringo, help me! He's- He's bonkers!"

Ringo carefully placed his meal on the dining table, and leapt onto the floor. "You're a swine, George!" He didn't hesitate in helping John traumatise the poor boy, and started to flick him on the head, as John continued to pin him down. The young lead guitarist was tortured for many long minutes, laughing all the way.

After a while, they lay on their backs, staring up at the plain white ceiling, and caught their breath. All previous hostilities had been forgotten, and they were brothers once again.

"Lads, I don't wanna marry Cyn. She's nice and everything, but. . ."

Ringo and George exchanged a knowing look. They weren't surprised. "We know, John. But you have to."

John scowled, and crossed his arms. "Just cause she's preggers. I don't even reckon it's mine, you know."

This, however, was news to them. "What?" They sat up and stared down at him. He continued to look past them, up at the damp-affected ceiling.

"Well, we did it once, sure. It was rather nice. But she was just another bird, you know?" He let his arms fall to his sides, and rolled over to face them. "And then, a few weeks later, she comes up to me, and tells me she's pregnant." Worst shock of his life, it was. "Then, she starts saying she wants to get married, so the baby will have a family." He exhaled deeply, and ran a hand through his hair. "So, being a savvy fella in these matters, I asked her two things; if there'd been any others, and how far along she was."

"And?" Ringo asked, feeling sorry for his friend.

"She's not a real villain – she admitted there'd been others. And she said that she was two months along."

"Wait," George said, holding up a hand. "You spent the night together, _**and she was already knocked up**_?"

John looked at him sadly. "So it would seem. She _**is**_ preggers, so I didn't want to upset her too much by asking."

"And you proposed and everything?" Ringo asked, fetching his sandwich.

"She can't do it alone. It's the right thing to do," John said, impressing the others. "It could so easily have been mine anyway. And maybe having a wife won't be too bad – someone to come home to, and everything."

George and Ringo looked at him with newfound respect. "I guess you don't have to do it, if you don't want to, Johnny."

John just rolled onto his back once more, and stared silently at the ceiling.

"Does Paul know?"

He scoffed. "Of course he does. Nothing gets past him. Ever."

They lay in silence for a few more moments. They could hear the hum of traffic from outside, and muffled voices from the apartments downstairs.

"Actually, where _**is**_ Paul? And Hayley?" George said suddenly, sitting up quickly. "They came in, didn't they?"

John leapt to his feet. "And the hunt commences!"

The three of them started searching through the apartment for the other Beatle and their new friend. They looked in her study, but it was empty. They poked their heads in the kitchen, but it only held traces of peanut butter. They peered under the couch, but couldn't see anything. They then knocked softly on the bathroom door, and Paul answered quietly.

"Come in."

John, followed by George and then Ringo, gently eased the door open and slipped into the cool, tiled room. He stepped carefully over to where Paul lay, leaning against the bathtub with Hayley in his arms.

The once sweet-smelling room was filled with the nauseating odour of sick, and she had some dried on her chin. There was some on the toilet seat, where Paul hadn't been able to get her to it in time, and Ringo and George quietly left the room again, both to give her privacy and to hunt down some cleaning materials.

Paul looked up at John, and John felt a stab of guilt. While he and the other two had been laughing and joking around, poor Paul had been in here by himself holding her hair back from her face as she spewed into the toilet bowl, and then cradling her before she fell onto the hard tiles.

"I'm sorry, mate. You should've really called out for help."

Paul rolled his eyes. "There really wasn't any need. I had it under control."

"Oh yeah, obviously," John said sarcastically, waving a hand towards the vomit near the toilet.

Paul ignored him. "I think it's over now. There's nothing left for her to bring up."

"Gees, how long was she at it?"

"Fifteen straight minutes."

John was silent.

"Still, I think she should sleep with us tonight."

"What?" John exclaimed. "Have you no respect for her virtue, Macca? How do you think she'll thank you in the morning? With a punch, that's what."

Paul was surprised he was opposed to the idea. "It's just safer for her, and one of us is bound to wake up if she starts to feel sick again. I didn't mean, you know, _**sleep-with-her**_, sleep with her."

John cast a look down at the girl passed out in his best friend's arms. "Fine, if that's what you think will be best for her."

Paul smiled. "It is."

"Just as long as she doesn't puke on me."


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hey guys. I've written a HEAP so I reckon I'll just post tonnes of chapters, and try and get on with the story. I want to be able to move on to other things, as I have loads of ideas for other stories, and this one is becoming a slight drag, but I won't give up on it just yet. Thanks once again to EVERYONE who read, reviewed, favourited and whatnot. :D You guys make my day. Enjoy, and please review! (nicely :P)**

The first thing Hayley noticed was the sunshine. There were no windows in her bedroom, so waking up to daylight was cause for concern. The second thing she noticed was the distant roar of traffic, louder than normal. Piecing these two pieces of information together, even with a cloudy brain, she deduced that she was sleeping in her lounge room, and someone had opened up the balcony doors, leaving them open to the sun's rays, the noise of the city, and the elements. A cool breeze wafted in, and she could smell the promise of rain.

The next thing to compute was her positioning. She realised that she must've been laid out to sleep on the mattresses with the four Beatles, but didn't expect to be quite as entwined as she was. Someone was holding her hand, someone had their leg hooked around hers, someone had thrown their arm around her waist, and someone else was resting their head on her stomach, just below the afore-mentioned arm. She was pressed up against all four at once, and could feel the rise and fall of their chests as they breathed in and out. Even their breathing was musical, she marvelled. They were all in time with each other.

Feeling a splitting headache start to blossom within her skull, she squeezed her eyes firmly shut, and twisted around, so that her face was buried in the pillow. She'd like to see the stupid sunlight burn her retinas now.

Her sudden movement disturbed the boys, and they began to stir.

"Hayley?" Ringo murmured sleepily, his head resting on the soft flesh of her stomach. It was the best pillow he'd ever had.

She just groaned into the soft fabric of the pillow, and pushed down harder.

"Is she awake, Ringo?" George asked, flexing his fingers around hers as he tried to wake up completely.

"Shuddup, you two," Paul groaned, and realised his leg was in rather an awkward place. He tried to move it away, but only managed to drag it against the smooth skin of hers in the attempt, which wasn't very helpful. At least, he _**hoped **_it was hers.

John ignored everyone, fantastic dreams still playing in his mind. He tightened his hold on the hung-over girl, and made a sound the others could've sworn sounded like purring.

"What's the time?"

"I dunno, George. I'm not a clock."

"Ringo 'The Clock' Starr. . . Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Oh, bugger off."

"Well, someone sure needs their coffee."

Paul sighed, saying goodbye to sleep. He slid out of the blankets, and used the couch to help him stand up. His muscles didn't work to 100% in the morning. He stretched, and turned to look out the clear glass doors, his pyjama shirt riding up and revealing some pale stomach. Hayley admired it out of the corner of her eye, and pondered on the fact that in only a year, in their time, girls all over the world would kill for front-row seats like hers. She was unbelievably lucky. Now, where was her camera . . . ?

"Pancakes okay?" Paul asked, slipping easily into his mother-hen role.

"Of course!" George enthused, sitting up, but keeping his hold on her hand. He was almost completely awake now. "You're a legend, Paul."

"Ringo? What about you?"

The drummer blinked slowly. "Coffee. Please."

"Then pancakes?"

"Sure."

Paul then turned his attention to the girl. Buried under several blankets, as well as many Beatles, all he could see was her wavy brown hair, splayed out on the pillow like a waterfall. "Can either of you see if she's awake?"

George peered closely at her, delicately brushing aside a few strands of hair. "I think she is."

"Hayley?" Paul asked gently. "Do you feel like breakfast?"

She made some gagging noises in reply, so he marked her down as a no.

As he began to cook up a storm, she rolled onto her side, and found herself facing John. He stared back at her, sleep only just dissipating from his warm brown eyes. He smiled at her happily, and used the arm wrapped around her waist to pull her closer.

George noticed the sudden tug on his hand, and Ringo the sudden disappearance of his wonderful pillow. They both looked towards her, and noticed the sudden embrace.

"John's awake!" George cried, diving onto them, and cunningly separating them. He started tickling his fellow band-member while he was still a sitting duck, his cognitive faculties only just warming up.

Hayley was grateful for the intervention – she really didn't want to fall for John Lennon. It was just too complicated. Though the hug had been rather nice, she had to admit.

"John's up?" Paul echoed, stepping out of the kitchen wearing nothing but pyjama pants and a Simpson's apron, with a spatula in his hand. She'd bought them all pyjamas and other bits and pieces yesterday, from a discount store. The waistband of his pants was already losing its elasticity, and hung low on his hips. "D'ya want pancakes, Lennon?"

John shoved George off of him, and sat up. "Sure. Sounds tasty, ma. And maybe, after breakfast, you can teach me how to knit, and polish silverware, and arrange flowers."

Paul rolled his eyes, and played along. "Your sister is a much better student than you are. Maybe she could teach you."

"Me sister? Do you mean old Georgia here?"

"She's got quite a dap hand at making pot-pourri, I'll have you know."

George joined in. "It's not that hard, Joanna. Maybe if you didn't spend so much time chasing boys, you'd get the hang of it."

"I can't help it if some boys are absolutely gorgeous. I'm bonkers for 'em!"

Hayley suddenly cried out in pain.

"What is it, Hales?" Ringo asked with concern.

"Laughing hurts. Don't be funny."

They smiled in relief. She'd scared them.

All of a sudden, her phone rang. She groaned loudly, and stood, taking the blankets with her.

"Oi!" Ringo exclaimed, attempting to warm himself by burrowing in next to George.

She stumbled with momentum over to the dining table, where her bag still rested. She quickly searched through it for her mobile, and flipped it open.

Seeing the caller, she frowned slightly, and held it to her ear.

"Mum?"

The boys were very worried. They'd just finished their second helping of Paul's marvellous pancakes, and she still hadn't come in off the balcony. They were tossing up whether to go and fetch her, or to just leave her alone.

She had gone outside soon after answering, as she had discovered the connection to be rather weak. Also, she couldn't deny the fact that she wanted a little privacy. It had been weeks since she'd talked to someone back home, let alone her mother, and she didn't want to Beatles' antics to distract her.

"Hayley, we can't make it to your graduation." Her mother got straight to the point.

"Oh," Hayley said in surprise. She'd been expecting her parents to visit her in London for the first time in order to see her graduate, and it did hurt a little that they weren't going to be there on the biggest day of her life so far. "Money issues?"

"Well, I guess you could say that." Her mother trailed off. If Hayley didn't know her better, she would've said she sounded weary, and stressed. But that was impossible – her mother was friggin' Superwoman.

"What do you mean?" Hayley leant against the rails, and looked down at the street. It was eleven o'clock in the morning over here, which meant it was only eight in the evening back home. Her mother shouldn't sound as tired as she did.

"Well, treating Hayden's cancer is going to be expensive." She said it quickly, like ripping off an emotional band-aid. For just one simple sentence, it was amazing how crushing its weight was.

Hayley froze in shock. Her mother continued to talk, but she didn't hear a word. The phone slipped from her hand, and landed in the neglected flower bed below the balcony. Her heart started to work again, pounding at fifty times its normal pace, and her breathing started to accelerate in the attempt to catch up with it, making her world start to spin. She gripped the cool metal railing tightly, and didn't so much as flinch as the dark clouds fulfilled their rainy promise.

She resembled a marble statue, the rain running in rivulets down her face, and eroding her emotional strength as it does the structural integrity of a traditional statue. She started to cry, the salt water of her tears mingling with the raindrops, and forming pools on the floor.

Hayden wasn't just her older brother. He was her older brother by twenty-eight minutes.

Eventually, John summed up the courage to step out onto the balcony. As soon as he had seen her through the glass panels, he had known that something was wrong. He slid the doors open quietly, and stood beside her without a sound.

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, and his heart froze.

Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Her chest heaved as she fought to gain a steady breathing tempo, and her breaths were more like gasps. Her hands trembled as they rested on the rails, and her clothes were soaked right through.

He cautiously moved closer to her, and placed a warm arm across her shoulders. When she didn't object, he pulled her into a bear-hug, and started to stroke her hair. She burrowed her face into his shoulder, and her sobs became more pronounced. He didn't care one bit, and gently swayed her from side to side, to try and comfort her.

After a few moments, when she thought he was going to ask what the problem was, he started to sing softly in her ear. It was some sweet little love song, and made her feel infinitely better. The rain continued fall on them, but neither paid any attention.

After a considerable amount of time, when she was afraid he'd sung himself hoarse, she pulled away, and wiped at her eyes. "Do you want to know what's wrong?"

He chose his words carefully. "It's none of my business, but if you want to tell me, then I'll make it my business. It's up to you. If it's too painful, then don't worry."

She took a moment to decide, but her decision was already made for her. There was no way she could keep something like this from him, especially after he'd been so gentlemanly.

"It's my twin."

"You're a twin?" he exclaimed in surprise, eyebrows raised.

She chuckled softly, a positive sign. "Yeah. It's Hayden. He's older by just a few minutes, so we tell people he's the first child, and I'm the second. They're more likely to cringe if they find out that 'Hayley' and 'Hayden' are twins."

He smiled. He actually thought it was kinda cute. "Well, what about him?"

She decided to take a leaf out of her mother's book, and just get it over and done with. "He has cancer. Which means my parents can't make it to my graduation. But I'm mainly sad about the cancer part."

John squeezed her hand. "Jesus. I'm so sorry, Hayley." His eyes were serious. "What's the prognosis?"

She cleared her throat, and looked down shamefully. "I- Uh- I don't know."

"Why? What do the doctors say? Didn't your ma tell you?"

She peered over the edge of the balcony. "I may've dropped my phone. Shock, and everything, you know."

John stared at her blankly, then started to laugh. He tried to suppress it, but it still managed to slip out as little squeaks. She looked at him, and found his laughter to be contagious. She started to giggle; the ridiculousness of the situation hit her like a freight train.

She was here, with the 1962-era Beatles, having just finished a three-year Oxford scholarship, and was finding out that her twin brother had cancer. John Lennon was holding her hand, Paul McCartney was cooking half-naked in her kitchen, George Harrison was playing around on her guitar, and Ringo Starr was curled up on her couch. On Monday morning, she would receive her diploma, and then, in the evening, fly home to Sydney, for the first time in three years.

And, apparently, she would arrive to a maelstrom of chemotherapy, family counselling, grief, and hospital visits. Her other half, her better half most of the time, could be dying. Right now.

She laughed without restraint, her pain leaching into the joyful sounds, and making them slightly insane. John ceased to giggle, and looked at her in concern, as she bent over, cackling. Tears ran out of the corners of her eyes, and even she couldn't tell whether it was from the laughter or the grief.

After a while, her insane laughter died down, and the sound of the rain falling on the street took the place of their conversation.

"Do you want me to send Ringo or George to go fetch your pocket-phone, so you can call her back?" John crossed his arms, and looked at the drenched girl with concern. "I think you should."

She sighed, and he could see the condensation of her breath. She turned her head halfway towards him and nodded.

"Come with me." He reached for her hand, and gently pulled her into the apartment, and out of the rain, as it suddenly started to get heavier.

George looked up from his position on the floor. He was sitting cross-legged, holding the guitar close to his body, and quietly strumming. Carefully laying the guitar on the pillows, he stood, and strode over to them. "You alright, love?"

He looked into her sparkling blue eyes, and tried to search for the source of her pain.

"My twin brother has cancer." She seemed a bit above everything now; the only thing keeping her chained to reality was John's firm hold on her hand.

"Do you want some pancakes, love?" Paul asked, just stepping out of the kitchen, and having not heard what she'd said.

"My twin brother has cancer."

Ringo moaned in his sleep, and rolled onto his side.

"My twin brother has cancer."

John and George carefully guided her towards the lounge, and sat her down next to Ringo. She sat there rigidly, eyes unfocused.

John whispered something to George, and he nodded. Casting a quick glance at her, they walked to the door, across the landing, down the stairs, and into the foyer. They went out into the rain, and started searching for her phone.

Upstairs, Paul shoved the sleeping Ringo over, and sat down between them. He hesitantly held a soft, warm hand against her freezing, damp cheek, and used the other to brush a wet clump of hair out of her eyes. She started to weep, and he pulled her into him, holding her close and burying his nose in her hair. He softly stroked her arm, and Ringo woke up.

"Wha-?"

Paul shot him a warning look, and he fell silent. As she continued to cry, the drummer realised that Paul still hadn't gotten around to putting on a shirt. This definitely would've been awkward if she wasn't so beyond noticing. He got up, and went to sit on her other side. He hugged her from behind, sliding his hands in between them.

Theoretically, she should've felt substantially better, being embraced by the two Beatles so intimately. But her brain was too overloaded to comprehend what was happening. She soon ran out of tears, and clung to them, just sniffling.

They remained entwined like that 'til George and John returned, covered in mud and grass stains, and dripping wet.

The three on the lounge looked up, and the two new arrivals looked down.

After a few minutes of the two groups staring at each other in surprise, Hayley muttered, "Don't get mud on the carpet."

George smiled weakly. "She's better, then?"

John rolled his eyes. "Clinging to a topless Macca in the way she is, it's a wonder she's not completely singing for joy." He didn't say it completely sincerely, and stepped over to her, holding out her phone. Ringo, Paul and Hayley moved apart, and she reached out for the small clam-shell mobile.

She held it on the palm of her hand, and looked at it contemplatively. After a quiet sigh, she got up, walked into her study, and closed the door.

As soon as the door clicked closed, the bickering commenced.

"What do you think you're doing, Paulie?"

"Why are you in such a state, George?"

"I'm comforting the poor girl, you twit. She's distraught!"

"John pushed me over in the flowerbed – sorry, mud-bed. What's your excuse for looking like shite, Starkey?"

"Without a shirt?"

"I just woke up!"

"I had it under control!"

"Well, it didn't take yourself too long to fling yourself on her."

"Yeah, what George said, Paul. You're all over her!"

"I was talking to Ringo, you egocentric git! It's your fault our pyjamas are now ruined!"

"I was consoling a crying young girl! It was my first reaction, as soon as I 'eard her weeping! It woke me up!"

"I am not all over her! You're the one who's falling for her!"

"Wow, another thing we have in common, ey? All four of us?"

"SHUT UP!" she screamed, wrenching open the study door. "I hate it when you bicker! I have enough to deal with!"

They fell silent, and she continued to stand in the doorway, her chest heaving with each breath. The heavy rain pinged on the roof, and the gutters gurgled with the strong surge of water. As time passed, her breathing slowed, and the blood left her cheeks, leaving them as pale and lifeless as ever.

When they still didn't say anything, she retreated back into her sanctuary, and pulled the door closed firmly behind her.

"Lads, I don't even know why she's upset." Ringo looked up timidly, and whispered, scared of making her render another visit upon them.

John, Paul and George exchanged looks of treaty, white flags waving behind their hazelnut, honey-coloured brown eyes.

George turned to Ringo. "It would appear that her twin brother, Hayden, has cancer."

Ringo was silent for a moment. "Hayden and Hayley? That's rather sweet."

John furrowed his brow. "Starkey, did you not hear what Harrison said? Hayden has cancer."

"I heard him, all right. I just don't want to believe him."

The others knew what he meant. They didn't want to think that any pain would befall their kind host – she'd shown them so much generosity, and had helped them immensely; she didn't deserve anything like this.

Ringo breathed out deeply, closed his eyes, and leant back into the high-backed cushion of the lounge. George shoved his legs aside, and sat next to him, rubbing his temples. John and Paul looked at each other, and touched thumbs – their equivalent of a secret handshake. They then sank to the floor, and sat on the mattresses, their backs resting against the front of the lounge, next to George and Ringo's knees.

George affectionately reached out and ruffled John's hair, dislodging a few stray blades of grass. John tilted his head back to look at the young guitarist, and smiled. They were a family, first and foremost, and they would always forgive each other after a fight. 'Bro's before ho's', as they'd heard Hayley say.

They sat in expectant silence, all tensions gone. Paul pulled a blanket up over his naked chest, remembering how it had angered John. Ringo started to tap out the drum line for 'Love Me Do' – the song they'd been recording in the studio before things had gone terribly wrong. George leant over to the small end table next to the arm of the lounge, and picked up a thick novel (vetted by Hayley) that he had borrowed from the extensive library, and started reading. John closed his eyes, and imagined a world where he wasn't engaged to Cynthia. Paul started to sing along with Ringo's rhythm, and heard George and John humming their parts with him.

They were about to jump off the balcony out of boredom when they heard Hayley start playing the piano. It sounded like some sort of funeral march, and she played it with a great deal of emotion. They fell silent, and listened. When the funeral march ended, she began to play a slow, melancholic love song, which they all recognised. They couldn't place the name, or the composer, but they knew the melody, and hummed along quietly.

When it ended, the next piece she chose to play almost broke their hearts. It was a well-known piece, 'Heart & Soul'. She started to play the bass line, and continued to play it for several minutes. They soon realised that this was her way of telling them how she felt. She was reducing it into terms they would understand – musical terms.

Hayden and Hayley were like _Heart & Soul_ – a duet. The melody sounded thin and weak without the bass, and the bass was repetitive and uninteresting without the melody. To be complete, they needed each other. The piece wasn't_ Heart & Soul_ with only one of them, just as Hayley wasn't Hayley without Hayden, or Hayden wasn't Hayden without Hayley. Harmony meant completion, and completion was the only way the twins knew how to exist.

But how much longer could that last?


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: Read, review and ENJOY! :)**

She continued to play until the Sun sank below the horizon.

The boys, growing weary of sitting still and doing nothing, had been outside to have a proper mud-fight, and had used the garden hose to clean off before returning upstairs. They'd then started to jam in the bathroom, where she wouldn't be bothered by them. George had stolen her guitar, and Ringo used spoons to maintain a steady beat on the bathtub taps.

After they'd spent a few hours making music, they'd made themselves a rudimentary dinner, and ate on the mattresses, flicking the television onto the news.

Fascinated by what was happening in the world fifty years after the last news broadcast they'd seen, they watched rapt, as terrorist bombings, political scandals and climate change doom flickered across the screen. In colour.

"Is there anything that doesn't eradicate your faith in humanity?" Hayley asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to George, and stealing some of his dinner.

They looked up in surprise, having not noticed the sudden silence emanating from the room across the hallway.

They hadn't turned on the lights, so they only saw her by the flickering light of the small screen. It shimmered across her subdued features, and she blinked quickly to get the sudden light out of her eyes.

"You know, I once had a friend-" she began

"A likely story!" John interrupted, more out of a reflex of his funny bone than an actual need to say something. Paul whacked him.

"-who believed in 'voluntary extinction'. He vowed to never have kids. Said the human race didn't deserve to continue."

"Voluntary extinction, ay? Sounds pretty gloomy to me," George said, glad she seemed back to normal. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paul get up and go into the kitchen.

"Tell me about it. I suggested he throw himself out a window, but it didn't go down well." She stared at the small television screen with a straight face. Ringo, John and George followed her example, and didn't say a word.

"Oh, come on! That was funny!" she exclaimed suddenly, throwing her arms out in exasperation. They were being way too serious. "Wait, no – that was_** pun-ny**_!"

Ringo snorted with laughter, and turned to her with a wide smile. "I like you, Hayley. You make even me look funny." He had tomato sauce smeared on his chin, but didn't seem to notice.

John rolled his eyes. "Ringo, you're actually quite a funny guy. I think it's yer nose." He grinned goofily and tapped said elongated extremity. "And Hayley, my sense of humour just shrivelled up and died, it was so embarrassed at yer pun."

"Show me a piano falling down a mine shaft, and I'll show you A-flat minor."

"Oh no, you didn't!"

"I used to have a fear of hurdles, but I got over it."

"George, pass me that pillow, would you?"

"A grenade thrown into a kitchen in France would result in Linoleum Blown-apart. The man who survived mustard gas and pepper spray is now a seasoned veteran."

John held the pillow threateningly, poised to strike. "This is your last chance."

"My last lance? My past romance? My fast dance?"

"That's it." He lunged at her, and George and Ringo quickly grabbed all the food out of harm's way. He started to wallop her with the pillow, as she writhed around underneath him and tried to escape. She probably could've succeeded, if her laughter wasn't sapping her strength.

"Promise you won't do anymore!"

"Flom-is you bon't goo danny-floor!"

He snorted. "That doesn't even make sense!"

"Shloop bumble boop-doop."

"What, ya mad bird?"

"Herp derp herpy derp."

They both laughed, and she wrestled the pillow off him. He rolled over, still laughing, and lay back on the mattress. He was happy; actually, sincerely happy. And he didn't really know why.

Her laughter died out, and she sat up, George and Ringo giving her amused looks. She turned, and looked down at John, who still had a smile lingering on his handsome, pale face. He caught her gaze, and his smile blossomed into a fully-fledged grin. The top two buttons on his shirt were undone, and his sleeves were rolled up, giving him a casual, semi-formal look, as though the dinner party had ended a while ago, and now the fun actually started. It was highly alluring.

George smiled at the two of them. They seemed like brother and sister, bickering and play-fighting. He finished his meal, which had been picked apart by the rosy-cheeked girl, and turned back to the television set.

Ringo, realising his dinner had dripped down his chin, hastily smeared it on the back of his hand, hoping no one had noticed. Damn. He thought he'd gotten away with it, when John stared pointedly at his shirt, and he looked down to see bright red stains soaking into the fifty-year-old fabric. Double damn.

Paul came a short way out of the kitchen, and leant against the doorframe. "Would you like something to eat, young madam? I do believe you haven't had anything all day."

She couldn't believe he was being so nice – she'd always been under the impression that Paul was the egocentric narcissist of the group. She realised that she was in fact rather hungry, and looked up at him gratefully. "Make me a sammich, woman!"

John chuckled, as Ringo rubbed at the stains in his shirt desperately, and George stared transfixed at the television. "Yeah, ya silly bird. Go back into the kitchen, and don't you dare come out until you've finished making a . . . what was it, Hales?"

"Sammich! Sammich sammich sammich!" She pounded the ground with her fists, and pouted like an insolent toddler. John laughed quietly, and Paul smirked.

"Well, if you insist. . ."

"Sammich!"

"Of course, I'd just finished cooking you some bangers 'n' mash, like wha' we had. I thought you liked it, seeing as how you started wolfing down George's." Paul cocked an eyebrow, knowing he'd won.

She squealed, leapt up, and jumped on him, crushing him in a bear hug. "Bangers 'n' mash sammich!"

He hugged her back. She seemed hyperactive this evening, and it was highly entertaining. He started to blush, as she continued to squeeze him tightly, and looked nervously over to John. To his surprise, the mop-headed songwriter wasn't even paying attention – he was laughing at Ringo's misfortune with the sauce stains.

He gave her a last squeeze, and pulled away. "Wanna help me make the 'sammich'?"

She grinned at him, combing her fringe smooth with her long, pale fingers. He realised they were distinctly pianist's fingers – he could almost see the sinew and muscle beneath the skin, and pictured them gliding over the keyboard effortlessly.

"Sure. You'll probably stuff it up if you're left to do it on your own."

"Hey!" he cried in mock insult. "The others haven't complained about my cooking!"

"Yeah, well, they've recently time-travelled. It's almost certainly played havoc with their tastebuds."

She waltzed into the kitchen, and he leant against the counter as she began to assemble an Australian-style sausage-sandwich. "So, what did your mother say?" The others heard his question, and subtly muted the television, straining their ears to hear her reply.

Hayley didn't falter – she was feeling much more able to deal with everything now. "She said that he has a brain tumour, and it's serious. He's more likely to die than survive, but they started his chemo a few days ago, and are being quite optimistic about it all. He's a healthy, resilient young man with access to some of the best medical treatment in the world, so his chances are looking reasonably good, all things considered."

She slathered two pieces of white bread with butter, and smothered them in tomato sauce. She then smeared on a layer of mashed potato, and it turned pink when it mixed with the sauce. She then cut the sausages up into little chunks, and pressed them into the thick, potato coating. To top it off, she sprinkled some grated cheese on top, and pressed the two halves together. She cut the monstrous sandwich in half, and slid it off the chopping board and onto a plate.

Paul looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. "No wonder you need good medical facilities where you come from, if this is how you eat."

She ignored him, and smacked her lips. "This is the tastiest thing ever. Hayden and I invented it when we were little, and mum was too busy feeding Leo to supervise our eating habits properly. We introduced the Hay Hay sandwich to him when Alex was born, and then we did the same to Alex when little, wittle Will was born. It's the special thing all five of us make at barbecues to disgust our grandparents."

She carried it over to the dining table, and sat down, wedged against the wall. Paul turned the lights on for her, so she could see what she was shovelling into her gob. She started to munch on her dinner, and Ringo, George, John and Paul watched in horror.

"That's disgustin'," George muttered.

"Don't you have a gag reflex?" Ringo asked naively, eliciting amused looks from the others. John waggled his eyebrows, and George clamped a hand over his mouth before he could say something too risqué. Hayley chuckled through her mouthful, and shook her head.

"When I was in high school, my friends and I taught ourselves how to suppress our gag reflexes. For a laugh, you know," she explained, feeling stupid.

"Has it ever come in handy?" Paul asked, channelling John's pent-up dirtiness.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, many times. I suck dicks all the time, and having no gag reflex has made me quite popular among London's hookers."

George looked at her wide-eyed, and Ringo's jaw dropped. Paul's mouth twitched up in a small smile, and John's mind started imagining a variety of situation where her talent would be useful, using her comment as inspiration.

"Cor, love, I think you've just corrupted little Georgie here," Paul said, ruffling the thin lad's dark brown hair. "He's broke, he is."

"If he's broke, how's he gonna pay me for last night?"

George blushed, and John ridiculed him gleefully.

She finished her meal, as the news continued, and the boys collapsed on the floor. It sure filled her up. Once she was done, she sighed happily, and dumped her plate in the sink, where Paul had started to wash the dishes, but given up. She came back to find that the news had finished, and the boys looked at her expectantly.

"What is it? Do I look like Sauce-Boy?"

John patted the spot on the mattress next to him, and Paul asked her, "Well, what do you wanna do now?"

"Yeah, it's up to you." Ringo smiled at her, and her eyes drifted down to his shirt.

"Ringo, d'ya want me to pop that in the washing machine? It's no trouble."

He smiled sheepishly. "That'd be marvellous, love." He quickly stripped it off, and handed it to her. She had to admit, while Paul definitely won the naked chest competition, Ringo was in no way unattractive. She'd never really noticed – she'd probably just been distracted by the others.

"Ooh, Ringo, you're so manly," John crooned, draping himself over the semi-naked drummer, and running a hand along his biceps. Ringo jokingly held his arm up and flexed. John squealed in a falsetto voice, and pretended to faint onto his lap.

"One day, your fans will actually be like that," Hayley said, collecting various items of clothing from around the room which also looked like they needed a wash.

"What – fainting over us?" Paul asked, intrigued.

"No – gay." She stood in front of the TV with her hands on her hips. "Does anyone have anything I can wash? Last chance!"

John looked up at Ringo from his lap, then over to Paul, who looked to George, a smirk playing with the corners of his mouth. Suddenly, as if on some silent signal, the three still with shirts immediately began unbuttoning them, and tossed them over to her. All four of them then pulled off their trousers, and sat back down in their underwear – checked boxers, for all of them.

She stared at them in shock, her glazed eyes drifting over their exposed frames as their discarded clothing dropped to the ground from where it had been tossed onto her. Paul and John were more muscular, while George and Ringo were lean, though still with defined muscles. She had to be dreaming, that was it. Maybe she was still passed out drunk. Or maybe she'd jumped off the balcony in delirious grief.

They acted as though it was perfectly normal, and George returned to reading his book as the other three chatted. Ringo pulled out a deck of cards, and they began to play, while she remained standing there, perving on them.

Ringo, while cutting the deck, looked up at her. "Hayley, you know you feel like a sister, or something, yeah?"

"You're one of us now," Paul said, smiling sweetly, as John surreptitiously peeked at his hand, and stole an ace.

"And to be one of us, you have to realise that we're the same with or without shirts." George looked up from his book, and grinned crookedly at her. "Or pants."

She grinned back. "Hey, I'm not complaining, am I?" She forced herself to look away, and marched into her bedroom to gather things to add to the large laundry pile in her arms.

While she was gone, the boys made sure their decision to strip didn't backfire.

"Suck it in a bit, John. You're bordering on-" Ringo blew air into his cheeks, imitating a goldfish.

"Like you can talk, Starkey. I have just one piece of advice for you, ya drumming baboon – permanently flex your muscles. It's the only way she'll ever be able to see them." John pretended to look at the drummer's muscles through a magnifying glass.

"Lads, do me knees look rather knobbly, or am I just imagining it?" George ran a hand over his thin legs nervously.

"George, they look fine, but pass me that pillow, will you? My nipples are embarrassing," Paul admitted, looking down ashamedly.

John adopted a fake look of sympathy. "Aww, poor Macca's nip-nip's look funny. We all told you not to breastfeed, didn't we?"

Ringo laughed. "After that, there's no going back, Mrs. Mac. Say goodbye to normal nipples forever!"

John approached the left-handed boy, and eyed him mischievously. "Of course, I'm sure a good shock will make them better."

"Whaddya mean?" Paul asked, dread pooling in the bottom of his stomach. "You don't mean- no, surely not."

"Nipple cripple!" Ringo cried, and he and John attacked Paul, clawing at his nipples and twisting them painfully.

Fate chose that moment for Hayley to re-enter the room. She saw John and Ringo, sitting on top of Paul with their hands on his nipples, and looked at them oddly for a moment. She then shook her head to dispel any bizarre thoughts, and carried a large white plastic clothes basket, full of all the laundry she'd stumbled across, to the front door, and left the apartment, to visit the Jameson's downstairs, and their open-door laundry service.

"Great one, guys, now she thinks we're all boning, or something," said Paul with disgust, easily throwing them off him, and sitting up.

There was an awkward silence, which John decided to break. "Your nipples are fine, by the way. Quite firm and perky."

George and Ringo snorted, and Paul glared at his oldest friend. "You're a swine, Lennon. A real swine."

John grinned a toothy, self-satisfied grin at the red-faced boy, and grunted like a pig. Paul rolled his eyes, and told Ringo to start dealing again another round, before they started to kill each other. George curled up on his side, and continued to read, becoming absorbed in the fascinating story Hayley had recommended.

Eventually, Hayley returned, and came in smelling of laundry powder and bleach. "It'll be another hour or so. But they promised to bung it straight in the dryer, so it's more like two hours until everything is ready. What do you wanna do til then? Are you happy to continue what you're doing?"

John looked down at his hand, then up at her. "No, let's do something else. Racial lynching!"

"And the rest of you? Surely his isn't the only suggestion."

George ignored her, and continued to read.

"Harrison over there will probably read that until he runs out of book. That's what he's like. You should never have given it to him in the first place, ya silly bird," Paul teased, nonchalantly crossing his arms over his nipples.

Ringo smiled up at her. "We could do something else, if you want."

"Well, there is a movie I wanna watch."

"Well good! Then that's what we'll do." Ringo rubbed his hands together, and started to collect up all the playing cards.

"But . . . it may contain several spoiler-like moments." Hayley confessed, wringing her hands.

"Stuff that!"Paul exclaimed, throwing caution to the wind. "If it's what you want to do, then we'll just promise to not use our new knowledge in any time-illegal ways."

She thought it over, as John and Ringo fought over the last few cards, which John was trying to hide in his boxers. "Okay, I guess if you all promise, then it's not that bad."

They all agreed, and she put on Hayden's favourite movie – _The Blues Brothers_. They watched in relative awe, as she sang along, and occasionally got up and danced. They thoroughly enjoyed it, and spent a vast majority of the next two hours laughing.

Once it finished, no one had enough energy to get up and remove the disk. The lights had been turned out once more, and the dark light from the television's standby screen filled the room with eerie light and peculiar shadows. They lay back on the mattresses in a circle, their heads nearly all touching. They began to talk.

"Hales, are we still alive today, in your world?" George said, turning his head to the side to face her.

She took a while to answer. This was dangerous territory. "The last survivor passed away three months ago. Other than that, my lips are sealed."

They were silent for a while as they digested this fact. None of them, it would seem, would pass eighty.

"How do I die?" John asked, and she pretended to not have heard him. Instead, her hand sought his, and, to his surprise, she entwined their fingers.

The thought of his death brought tears to her eyes. She blinked quickly to get rid of them, and wished she could have told him how to stay safe. But she had a strong inkling that it was very, _**very**_ against the rules.

"How do I die, Hayley?" George asked quietly, not sure if he even wanted to know the answer.

As with John, she went to hold his hand, and her heart broke as she imagined how useless throwing out his cigarettes would be. She wanted to tape his mouth shut, and lock him in a padded cell.

"Wha' bout me, Hales?" Paul enquired, and was silenced when she affectionately leant her head against his, feeling much the same as with the other two.

"And me?" Ringo asked, wondering why the others weren't pressuring her for an actual answer. He didn't see how she had answered them.

She thought for a moment – she was running out of hands and heads. She ended up pulling her head away from Paul's, and kissed Ringo on the cheek, pressing her lips against his face softly, yet firmly. She then rested her head where it was before, and her russet locks mingled with Paul's dark brown ones.

They lay in the peaceful, dimly lit room for a few more minutes. She felt as though she was mourning them, and they didn't feel the need to break the sombre silence.

Eventually, though, John did.

"So, tomorrow – back to 1962?"

The others didn't say anything. They all knew they had to go back; they'd overstayed their welcome, and were too far away from home anyway. But none of them wanted to leave Hayley.

Hayley had a solution, however.

"I wanna go back with you."

They immediately sat upright, looking at her with concern.

"Hayley Evans, are you sure about that?" John asked, brushing his thumb across the back of her hand.

She nodded, completely serious. "I've thought about it for a while now, and I'm decided."

Paul's warm brown eyes looked at her with apprehension. "What about Hayden? And your family?"

She tightened her grip on George and John's hands. "I can always come back to now. But they won't miss me much anyway – I'm one of five, after all."

"But Hayden will miss you," George said softly. "Don't you think that he needs you right now?"

She remembered what she had decided earlier, and stuck to it completely. "I can come back for him. And anyway, I don't think I'll be much support anyway – it'll destroy me to see him so sick." She cleared her throat. "He's managed without me for three years, anyhow."

They looked at each other, and, by some psychic communication, Paul was elected head diplomat.

"Well, state your final case, and then we'll have a band meeting."

"Okay," she agreed. She quickly gathered her thoughts. And there were _**plenty**_ of them. "I want to accompany you back to 1962, because I feel a stronger emotional connection with that era than my own. I write, I play and I read to escape my own reality. My family is the only thing which really keeps this time alive for me, and at the moment they're imploding with yet another disaster. This time last year, my parents were getting a divorce. This time next year, Leo will probably have attempted suicide, or the family would be divided by Will announcing his partiality to fellow males. Ever since I was a teen, you four have been my favourite band, but now you're more than that – you're my friends. And I don't want to lose our friendship before it has had a chance to flourish. That's why I want to go back with you. Technically, I don't even mind about the year, as long as I'm still with you four."

She blushed, and fell silent. Without the others saying a word, she got up, and walked into her bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her.

"I think we should take her," Ringo started, looking around at the others. "She's a right laugh." He meant more than that, but he knew he didn't need to explain it to them.

George nodded. "Even though she has a lot on her plate right now, I want her to come back with us." He pulled his legs up to his chest, and rested his chin on his knees.

John sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Of course I want her to come back. It should be fun. And I like her. We all like her."

They looked to Paul, and he pouted, annoyed at having to be the bad guy. "Well, I like her, and of course I want to continue our friendship, but it's because I care for her so much that I think we should leave her here. It's better for her – we all know what it's like to be so far away from home, and would you ever inflict that pain upon her?"

John immediately replied, "She's already got a heap of pain. If anything, I think the time-travel might actually make her feel better."

"Make it easier to deal with," George added.

Paul sighed in resignation, and said in defeat, "Well, I guess it's three to one."

"It's settled then," Ringo smiled.

"Tomorrow, all five of us go back to 1962," John concluded, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Things were bound to get interesting.


End file.
